The tadpole poet will never grow into anything bigger than a frog; not though in that stage of development he should puff and blow himself till he bursts with windy adulation at the heels of the laureled ox.
Change lays her hand not upon the truth.
Change lays not her hand upon truth.
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
Though one were fair as roses His beauty clouds and closes.
From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.