top of page


Complete Song

Lyrics/ texts

A Farm-Picture

Walt Whitman

1819 –1892

THROUGH the ample open

   door of the peaceful country barn,
A sun-lit pasture field, with

   cattle and horses feeding;
And haze, and vista, and the

   far horizon, fading away.

Afternoon on a Hill

Edna St. Vincent Millay

1892 –1950

I will be the gladdest thing
   Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
   And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
   With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
   And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
   Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
   And then start down!

This poem is in the public domain.

An Hymn to the Evening

Phillis Wheatley

1753 –1784

Soon as the sun forsook

   the eastern main
The pealing thunder shook

   the heav’nly plain;
Majestic grandeur! From

   the zephyr’s wing,
Exhales the incense of the

   blooming spring,
Soft purl the streams,

   the birds renew their notes,
And through the air their

   mingled music floats.
Through all the heav’ns

   what beauteous

   dies are spread!

But the west glories in

   the deepest red:
So may our breasts with

   every virtue glow,
The living temples of our

   God below!
Fill’d with the praise of him

   who gives the light,
And draws the sable curtains

   of the night,
Let placid slumbers soothe

   each weary mind,
At morn to wake more

   heav’nly, more refin’d;
So shall the labors of the day begin
More pure, more guarded

   from the snares of sin.
Night’s leaden sceptre

   seals my drowsy eyes,
Then cease, my song,

   till fair Aurora rise.

April Rain Song


Langston Hughes

1901 –1967

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head

   with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on

   our roof at night
And I love the rain.

(Used with permission,

Harold Ober Associates)

Belle Gunness


Bella Gunness was a lady fair

   in Indiana state
She weighed about three hundred

   punds and that is quite some weight
That she was stronger than a man her

   neighbors all did own
She butchered hogs right easily and

   did it all alone
But hogs were just a sideline she

   indulged in now and then
Her favorite occupation was the

   butchering of men
To keep her cleaver busy

   would run an ad
And men would come scurrying with

   all the cash they had
Now some say Belle killed only ten and

   some say forty two
It was hard to tell exactly but there

   were quite a few
Where Belle is now no one knows but

   my advice is fair
If a widow advertises for a man

   with cash beware.

Central Park At Dusk


Sara Teasdale

1884 –1933

Buildings above the leafless trees
Loom high as castles in a dream,

While one by one the lamps come out
To thread the twilight with a gleam.

There is no sign of leaf or bud,
A hush is over everything—

Silent as women wait for love,
The world is waiting for the spring.

Departing Summer


George Moses Horton


When auburn Autumn mounts the stage,
And Summer fails her charms to yield,
Bleak nature turns another page,
To light the glories of the field.

At once the vale declines to bloom,
The forest smiles no longer gay;
Gardens are left without perfume,
The rose and lilly pine away.

The orchard bows her fruitless head,
As one divested of her store;
Or like a queen whose train has fled,
And left her sad to smile no more.

That bird which breath'd her vernal song,
And hopp'd along the flow'ry spray,
Now silent holds her warbling tongue,
Which dulcifies the feast of May.

But let each bitter have its sweet,
No change of nature is in vain;
'Tis just altern
ate cold and heat,
For time is pleasure mix'd with pain.




Edgar Allan Poe

1809 –1849

Gaily bedight,

A gallant knight,

In sunshine and in shadow,

Had journeyed long,

Singing a song,

In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old—

This knight so bold—

And o’er his heart a shadow

Fell, as he found

No spot of ground

That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength

Failed him at length,

He met a pilgrim shadow—

‘Shadow,’ said he,

‘Where can it be—

This land of Eldorado?’

‘Over the Mountains

Of the Moon,

Down the Valley of the Shadow,

Ride, boldly ride,’

The shade replied,—

‘If you seek for Eldorado!’

Four Epitaphs

Countee Cullen

1903 –1946

            For my Grandmother

This lovely flower fell to seed;
Work gently sun and rain;
She held it as her dying creed
That she would grow again.

For John Keats, Apostle of Beauty

Not writ in water nor in mist,
Sweet lyric throat, thy name.
Thy singing lips that could death kissed
Have seared his own with flame.

        For Paul Laurence Dunbar

Born of the sorrowful of heart
Mirth was a crown upon his head;
Pride kept his twisted lips apart
In jest, to hide a heart that bled.

               For a Lady I Know

She even thinks that up in heaven
  Her class lies late and snores,
While poor black cherubs rise at seven
  To do celestial chores.

If You Should Go

Countee Cullen

1903 –1946

Love, leave me like the light,
    The gently passing day;
We would n
ot know, but for the night,
    When it has slipped away.

Go quietly; a dream,
    When done, should leave no trace
That it has lived, except a gleam
    Across the dreamer's face.


Owed to New York

Byron Rufus Newton



    Vulgar of manner, overfed,
    Overdressed and underbred,
    Heartless, Godless, hell's delight,
    Rude by day and lewd by night;
    Bedwarfed the man,

        o'ergrown the brute,
    Ruled by boss and prostitute:
    Purple-robed and pauper-clad,
    Raving, rotting, money-mad;
    A squirming herd in Mammon's mesh,
    A wilderness of human flesh;
    Crazed by avarice, lust and rum,
    New York, thy name's "Delirium."

Pictures of the Floating World


Amy Lowell




Autumn Haze

Is it a dragonfly or a maple leaf
That settles softly down upon the water?


A Lover

If I could catch the green

   lantern of the firefly

I could see to write you a letter.


Nuit Blanche

The chirping of crickets in the night
Is intermittent,
Like the twinkling of stars.



Even the iris bends,
When a butterfly lights upon it.


The Pond

Cold, wet leaves

Floating on moss-coloured water   

And the croaking of frogs—

Cracked bell-notes in the twilight.

Sea Gypsy

Richard Hovey

1864 – 1900

I am fevered with the sunset,
I am fretful with the bay,
For the wander-thirst is on me
And my soul is in Cathay.

There's a schooner in the offing,
With her topsails shot with fire,
And my heart has gone aboard her
For the Islands of Desire.

I must forth again to-morrow!
With the sunset I must be
Hull down on the trail of rapture
In the wonder of the Sea.

Southern Mansion

Arna Bontemps

1902 –1973

Poplars are standing there still as death
And ghosts of dead men
Meet their ladies walking
Two by two beneath the shade
And standing on the marble steps.

There is a sound of music echoing
Through the open door
And in the field there is
Another sound tinkling in the cotton:
Chains of bondmen dragging

   on the ground.

The years go back with an iron clank,
A hand is on the gate,
A dry leaf trembles on the wall.
Ghosts are walking.
They have broken roses down
And poplars stand there still as death.

Summer in the South

Paul Laurence Dunbar

1872 –1906


The oriole sings in the greening grove
As if he were half-way waiting,
The rosebuds peep from

   their hoods of green,
Timid and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep
And the nights smell warm and piney,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
And the woods run mad with riot.

The Little Turtle


Vachel Lindsay


There was a little turtle.

He lived in a box.

He swam in a puddle.

He climbed on the rocks.


He snapped at a mosquito.

He snapped at a flea.

He snapped at a minnow.

And he snapped at me.


He caught the mosquito.

He caught the flea.

He caught the minnow.

But he didn't catch me.

The Pasture

Robert Frost

1874 –1963

I'm going out to clean the

   pasture spring;

I'll only stop to rake the

   leaves away

(And wait to watch the

   water clear, I may):

I sha'n't be gone long.—

   You come too.

I'm going out to fetch

   the little calf

That's standing by the mother.

   It's so young,

It totters when she licks

   it with her tongue.

I sha'n't be gone long.—

   You come too.

Two Lullabies


Langston Hughes



"Winter Sweetness" 


THE little house is sugar,
Its roof with snow is piled,
And from its tiny window,
Peeps a maple-sugar child



OUT of the dust of dreams,
Fairies weave their garments;
Out of the purple and rose of

   old memories,
They make rainbow wings.
No wonder we find them such

   marvelous things!

Two Parables

(from "The Madman")


Kahlil Gibran

1883 –1931


On the Steps of the Temple

Yestereve, on the marble steps of the Temple, I saw a woman sitting between two men. One side of her face was pale, the other was blushing.


The Fox

A fox looked at his shadow at sunrise and said, “I will have
a camel for lunch today.”  And all morning he went about looking
for camels.  B
ut at noon he saw his shadow again—and he said, “A
mouse will do.”

Two Poems of Amy Lowell

Amy Lowell



July Midnight

Fireflies flicker in the tops of trees,
Flicker in the lower branches,
Skim along the ground.
Over the moon-white lilies
Is a flashing and ceasing of small,

   lemon-green stars.
As you lean against me,
The air all about you
Is slit, and pricked, and pointed with

   sparkles of lemon-green flame
Starting out of a background of

   vague, blue trees.


Madonna of the Evening Flowers


All day long I have been working

Now I am tired.

I call: "Where are you?"

But there is only the oak tree

   rustling in the wind.

The house is very quiet,

The sun shines in on your books,

On your scissors and thimble

   just put down,

But you are not there.

Suddenly I am lonely:

Where are you? I go about searching.

Then I see you,

Standing under a spire of pale blue


With a basket of roses on your arm.

You are cool, like silver,

And you smile.

I think the Canterbury bells are

   playing little tunes,

You tell me that the peonies

   need spraying,

That the columbines have

   overrun all bounds,

That the pyrus japonica should

   be cut back and rounded.

You tell me these things.

But I look at you, heart of silver,

White heart-flame of polished silver,

Burning beneath the blue steeples

   of the larkspur,

And I long to kneel instantly

   at your feet,

While all about us peal the loud, sweet

   Te Deums of the

Canterbury bells.



Three Poems of Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

1830 –1886


I Never Saw a Moor

I never saw a Moor —
I never saw the Sea —
Yet know I how the Heather looks
And what a Billow be.

I never spoke with God
Nor visited in Heaven —
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the Chart were given —


The Butterfly upon the Sky

The Butterfly upon the Sky,
That doesn’t know its Name
And hasn’t any tax to pay
And hasn’t any Home
Is just as high as you and I,
And higher, I believe,
So soar away and never sigh
And that’s the way to grieve—


Wild Nights!

Wild Nights – Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile – the winds –
To a heart in port –
Done with the compass –
Done with the chart!

Rowing in Eden –
Ah, the sea!
Might I moor – Tonight –
In thee!

Two Poems of Emma Lazarus

Emma Lazarus

1849 –1887


Long Island Sound

I see it as it looked

   one afternoon
In August,—by a fresh

   soft breeze o'erblown.
The swiftness of the tide,

   the light thereon,
A far-off sail, white as a

   crescent moon.
The shining waters with

   pale currents strewn,
The quiet fishing-smacks,

   the Eastern cove,
The semi-circle of its dark,

    green grove.
The luminous grasses,

   and the merry sun
In the grave sky; the sparkle

   far and wide,
Laughter of unseen children,

   cheerful chirp
Of crickets, and low lisp

  of rippling tide,
Light summer clouds f

   antastical as sleep
Changing unnoted while

   I gazed thereon.
All these fair sounds and

   sights I made my own.


The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant

  of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs

   astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed,

    sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch,

   whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning,

   and her name
Mother of Exiles.

    From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome;

   her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor

    that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your

    storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your

    tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning

    to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your

    teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless,

    tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside

    the golden door!"

Two Poems

of Georgia Douglas Johnson

Georgia Douglas Johnson

1880 –1966


The Dreams of the Dreamer​

The dreams of the dreamer
  Are life-drops that pass
The break in the heart
  To the soul’s hour-glass.

The songs of the singer
  Are tones that repeat
The cry of the heart
  ‘Till it ceases to beat.


Lost Illusions

Oh, for the veils of my

   far away youth,
Shielding my heart from

   the blaze of the truth,
Why did I stray from their

   shelter and grow
Into the sadness that

   follows—to know!

Impotent atom with

   desolate gaze
Threading the tumult of

   hazardous ways—
Oh, for the veils, for the

   veils of my youth
Veils that hung low o’er

   the blaze of the truth!

Two Poems

of Henry Livingston Jr.

Henry Beekman Livingston Jr. 

1748 – 1828


Catharine Breese Livingston


I fondly nursed an opening rose,
And view'd its beauties every day;
But ah! a withering storm arose
And swept my lovely flower away.


Acrostic -- Eliza Hughes

E v'ry grace in her combine,
L ove and truth and friendship join,
I n one source without reserve,
Z ealous all her friends to serve,
A nd diffuse true harmony.

H appy nymph of chaste repose,
U nsullied as the vernal rose.
G ay — majestic — yet serene,
H andsome, with a graceful mien;
E v'ry charm in her appear,
S he is lovely, chaste and fair.

Two Poems 

of James Weldon Johnson

James Weldon Johnson

1871 –1938


Down By the Carib Sea

(VI: Sunset in the Tropics)

A silver flash from the sinking sun, 
Then a shot of crimson across the sky
That, bursting, lets a thousand colors fly
And riot among the clouds; they run,
Deepening in purple, flaming in gold,
Changing, and opening fold after fold,
Then fading through all of the tints of

   the rose into gray.
Till, taking quick fright at the coming night,
They rush out down the west,
In hurried quest
Of the fleeing day.


Now above where the tardiest

    color flares a moment yet,
One point of light, now two,

   now three are set
To form the starry stairs,—
And, in her firefly crown,
Queen Night, on velvet slippered feet,

   comes softly down.


The Gift to Sing

Sometimes the mist overhangs my path,

And blackening clouds about me cling;
But, oh, I have a magic way
To turn the gloom to cheerful day—
     I softly sing.

And if the way grows darker still,
Shadowed by Sorrow’s somber wing,
With glad defiance in my throat,
I pierce the darkness with a note,
      And sing, and sing.

I brood not over the broken past,
Nor dread whatever time may bring;
No nights are dark, no days are long,
While in my heart there swells a song,
      And I can sing

Two Poems

of Jessie Redmon Fauset

Jessie Redmon Fauset

1882 –1961



From the French of

Massillon Coicou (Haiti)

I hope when I am dead that I shall lie 
In some deserted grave—

   I cannot tell you why, 
But I should like to sleep in some

   neglected spot
Unknown to every one,

   by every one forgot. 

There lying I should taste with

   my dead breath
The utter lack of life,

   the fullest sense of death; 
And I should never hear the note

   of jealousy or hate, 
The tribute paid by passersby

   to tombs of state. 

To me would never penetrate

   the prayers and tears
That futilely bring torture to

   daed and dying ears; 
There I should annihilate and

   my dead heart would bless
Oblivion—the shroud and

   envelope of happiness. 


Rain Fugue​


Slanting, driving, Summer rain
How you wash my heart of pain!
How you make me think of trees,
Ships and gulls and flashing seas!
In your furious, tearing wind,
Swells a chant that heals my mind;
And your passion high and proud,
Makes me shout and laugh aloud!

Autumn rains that start at dawn,
“Dropping veils of thinnest lawn,”
Soaking sod between dank grasses,
Sweeping golden leaves in masses,—
Blotting, blurring out the Past,
In a dream you hold me fast;
Calling, coaxing to forget
Things that are, for things not yet.

Winter tempest, winter rain,
Hurtling down with might and main,
You but make me hug my hearth,
Laughing, sheltered from your wrath.
Now I woo my dancing fire,
Piling, piling drift-wood higher.
Books and friends and pictures old,
Hearten while you pound and scold!

Pattering, wistful showers of Spring
Set me to remembering
Far-off times and lovers too,
Gentle joys and heart-break rue,—
Memories I’d as lief forget,
Were not oblivion sadder yet.
Ah! you twist my mind with pain,
Wistful, whispering April rain!

Summer, Autumn, Winter rain,
How you ease my heart of pain!
Whispering, wistful showers of Spring,
How I love the hurt you bring!

Two Poems

of Native American Poets

Alexander Posey

1873 –1908


William Walker Jr.




I picked up shells with ruby lips
  That spoke in whispers of the sea,
Upon a time, and watched the ships,
    On white wings, sail away to sea.

The ships I saw go out that day
    Live misty—dim in memory;
But still I hear, from far away,
    The blue waves breaking ceaselessly. 


Oh, give me back my bended bow,

Oh, give me back my bended bow,
     My cap and feather, give them back,
To chase o’er hill the mountain roe,
     Or follow in the otter’s track.
You took from me my native wild,
     Where all was bright, and free and blest’
You said the Indian hunter’s child
     In classic halls and bowers should rest.
Long have I dwelt within these walls
     And pored o’er ancient pages long.
I hate these antiquated halls;
     I hate the Grecian poet’s song.

Two Poems of Sara Teasdale

Sara Teasdale

1884 –1933


A Cry

Oh, there are eyes that he can see,
And hands to make his hands rejoice,
But to my lover I must be
Only a voice.

Oh, there are breasts to bear his head,
And lips whereon his lips can lie,
But I must be till I am dead
Only a cry.


But Not To Me

The April night is still and sweet
With flowers on every tree;
Peace comes to them on quiet feet,
  But not to me.

My peace is hidden in his breast
Where I shall never be,
Love comes to-night to all the rest,
  But not to me.

Three Poems

of William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams

1883 –1963



The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends

a red wheel

glazed with rain

beside the white


El Hombre

It’s a strange courage

you give me ancient star:


Shine alone in the sunrise

toward which you lend no part!



Oh, black Persian cat!

Was not your life

already cursed with offspring?

We took you for rest to that old

Yankee farm, — so lonely

and with so many field mice

in the long grass —

and you return to us

in this condition —!


Oh, black Persian cat.

Two Psalms

(The Bible, KJV)


Psalm 23

23 The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.



Psalm 117

117 O praise the Lord, all ye nations: praise him, all ye people.

2 For his merciful kindness is great toward us: and the truth of the Lord endureth for ever. Praise ye the Lord.

Velvet Shoes

Elinor Wylie

1885 –1928

Let us walk in the white snow
   In a soundless space;
With footsteps quiet and slow,
   At a tranquil pace,
   Under veils of white lace.

I shall go shod in silk,
   And you in wool,
White as white cow’s milk,
   More beautiful
   Than the breast of a gull.

We shall walk through the still town
   In a windless peace;
We shall step upon white down,
   Upon silver fleece,
   Upon softer than these.

We shall walk in velvet shoes:
   Wherever we go
Silence will fall like dews
   On white silence below.
   We shall walk in the snow

Zalka Peetruza

Raymond Garfield Dandridge


(Who Was Christened Lucy Jane)

She danced, near nude, to tom-tom beat,
With swaying arms and flying feet,
’Mid swirling spangles, gauze and lace,
Her all was dancing—save her face.

A conscience, dumb to brooding fears,
Companioned hearing de
af to cheers;
A body, marshaled by the will,
Kept dancing while a heart stood still:

And eyes obsessed with vacant stare,
Looked over heads to empty air,
As though they sought to find therein
Redemption for a maiden sin.

’Twas thus, amid force driven grace,
We found the lost look on her face;
And then, to us, did it occur
That, though we saw—we saw not her.

Fanfare & Four

Meditations on Spring


Fanfare ( Bb clarinet solo)


There Will Come Soft Rains


Sara Teasdale

1884 –1933

(War Time)

There will come soft rains and

   the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their

   shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools

   singing at night,
And wild plum trees in

   tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a

   low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war,

   not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither

   bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she

   woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that

   we were gone.



Sara Teasdale

1884 –1933

The roofs are shining from the rain,
The sparrows twitter as they fly,
And with a windy April grace
The little clouds go by.

Yet the back-yards are bare and brown
With only one unchanging tree --
I could not be so sure of spring
Save that it sings in me.


Spring Pools

Robert Frost


These pools that, though in forests,

   still reflect

The total sky almost without defect,

And like the flowers beside them,

   chill and shiver,

Will like the flowers beside them

   soon be gone,

And yet not out by any brook or river,

But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.


The trees that have it in their

   pent-up buds

To darken nature and be

   summer woods

Let them think twice before they

   use their powers

To blot out and drink up and sweep away

These flowery waters and these

   watery flowers

From snow that melted only yesterday.


A Light Exists In Spring

Emily Dickinson 


A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period --
When March is scarcely here

A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.

Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay --

A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament




Two Poems

of Ralph Waldo Emerson


​for medium-low voice,

Bb clarinet, ​violin,

cello, & piano

Ralph Waldo Emerson




If the red slayer think he slays,

Or if the slain think he is slain,

They know not well the subtle ways

I keep, and pass, and turn again.


Far or forgot to me is near;

Shadow and sunlight are the same;

The vanished gods to me appear;

And one to me are shame and fame.


They reckon ill who leave me out;

When me they fly, I am the wings;

I am the doubter and the doubt,

I am the hymn the Brahmin sings.


The strong gods pine for my abode,

And pine in vain the sacred Seven;

But thou, meek lover of the good!

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.


The Rhodora,

On being asked, whence is the flower.


In May, when sea-winds

  pierced our  solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in

  a damp  nook,
To please the desert and the

   sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his

  plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens

  his  array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made

  for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me               

there, brought you.

Drifting Flowers of the Sea

​Sadakichi Hartmann

1867 –1944

Drifting Flowers of the Sea

Across the dunes, in the waning light,
The rising moon pours her amber rays,
Through the slumbrous air of the dim,

   brown night
The pungent smell of the seaweed strays—
    From vast and trackless spaces

      Where wind and water meet,
        White flowers, that rise from the

         sleepless deep,
            Come drifting to my feet.
    They flutter the shore in a drowsy tune,
      Unfurl their bloom to the lightlorn sky,
        Allow a caress to the rising moon,
            Then fall to slumber, and fade, and die.

White flowers, a-bloom on the vagrant deep,
Like dreams of love, rising out of sleep,
You are the songs, I dreamt but never sung,
Pale hopes my thoughts alone have known,
Vain words ne’er uttered, though on the tongue,
That winds to the sibilant seas have blown.
     In you, I see the everlasting drift of years
       That will endure all sorrows, smiles and tears;
         For when the bell of time will ring the doom
           To all the follies of the human race,
              You still will rise in fugitive bloom
                 And garland the shores of ruined space.

bottom of page