way "To roll for ever through an endless day." 

 

 

   Pain and Death 

 Amid the fields of Asphodel Musing one day by chance, Imperious Jove Let memory rove And turned his gaze austere To where Arcadian shepherds dwell, The land of song and dance, Where Death was not And Time forgot To send the rolling year: Where man, untried by trouble's test, Found the supreme of life in rest. 

 Immortal man without a care Rivalled the gods above: Free, effortless, In sheer idlesse Aping divinity. So he was made by Jove to share A mortal life and love By anguish tried And purified For Death's cold sanctity. Thus 'twas ordained that Death and Pain Should raise man to a nobler plane. 

 

 

 Switzerland 

 Land of mountain, lake and river, Waterfalls, and rushing streams By the wayside where the cattle Gather with their bells a-ringing, In the day's departing beams. 

 Land of glorious dawns and sunsets, Glowing shades of every hue, Mists enchanted, floating, rising, Fine-spun softness, tints Olympian, Regal purple, virgin blue. 

 Tinkling zither, echoing jodel, Horns that loudly hail the morn From the upland's stony pathways Where the snowline meets the outposts Of the forest, sparse and lorn. 

 Nether tracts by sunlight heated, Show the vines in serried rows, Basking through the drowsy summer Till their rich and generous vintage From the wine-press redly flows. 

 Land of mountain peaks stupendous, Lakes that fade to meet the sky! Land for gods, for dreaming poets, Fit for men of soaring greatness, Sons of gifted ancestry. 

 Gods I found not, neither poets, Only little men who toil To supply the passing stranger, Bound upon the wheel of pleasure, With the produce of the soil. 

 What would Bonivard or Calvin Think of you, my little men, With your minds on money turning, While you strain with itching fingers Fast the golden calf to pen? 

 Yet I love your honest peasants Dwelling on the mountain slope, Slow and stolid, yet the children Of the spirit born of 

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