Deadly disquiet

Of this homeless place;

And all I love

In beauty cries to me,

'We but vain shadows

And reflections be.'

[Pg 41]

[Pg 41]

ALL THAT'S PAST

Very old are the woods;

And the buds that break

Out of the briar's boughs,

When March winds wake,

So old with their beauty are—

Oh, no man knows

Through what wild centuries

Roves back the rose.

Very old are the brooks;

And the rills that rise

Where snow sleeps cold beneath

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