And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet.

The noonday quiet holds the hill.

So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.

God's finger touched him, and he slept.

In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.

For love reflects the thing beloved.

So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.