The noblest works of human art and pride show that their makers were not satisfied.

The artist labors while he may, But finds at best too brief the day; And, tho' his works outlast the time And nation that they make sublime, He feels and sees that Nature knows Nothing of time in what she does, But has a leisure infinite Wherein to do her work aright.

Behold the grapes and all the fruits that Autumn gives today, As robed in red and gold, she rules, the Empress of Decay!

Life is the wave's deep whisper on the shore Of a great sea beyond.

And once I knew a meditative rose That never raised its head from bowing down, Yet drew its inspiration from the stars. It bloomed and faded here beside the road, And, being a poet, wrote on empty air With fragrance all the beauty of its soul.

Our yesterdays Are like a lonely and a ruined land Wherein a breeze of recollection sighs-- A fading land to which is no return.

All governments, Books, customs, buildings, railways, ships, and all the stark realities that men have made, Are but imagination's utterances.