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.
Henry AbbeyBehold the grapes and all the fruits that Autumn gives today, As robed in red and gold, she rules, the Empress of Decay!
Henry AbbeyOur yesterdays Are like a lonely and a ruined land Wherein a breeze of recollection sighs-- A fading land to which is no return.
Henry Abbey