Do your heart and head keep pace? When does hoary Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow?
Whither away, Bluebird, Whither away? The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky Thou still canst find the color of thy wing, The hue of May. Warbler, why speed, thy southern flight? ah, why, Thou, too, whose song first told us of the Spring? Whither away?
Alas, by what rude fate Our lives, like ships at sea, an instant meet, Then part forever on their courses fleet.
Lo, as I gaze, the statured man, Built up from you large hand appears: A type that nature wills to plan But once in all a people's years.
But every human path leads on to God; He holds a myriad finer threads than gold, And strong as holy wishes, drawing us With delicate tension upward to Himself.
O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life! O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true!
Fashion is a potency in art, making it hard to judge between the temporary and the lasting.
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