We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.
Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.
The golden guess is morning-star to the full round of truth.
If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.
Sweet is true love, though given in vain.