Thou hadst, for weary feet, the gift of rest.

A dreamer of the common dreams, A fisher in familiar streams, He chased the transitory gleams That all pursue; But on his lips the eternal themes Again were new.

On from room to room I stray,Yet mine Host can ne'er espy,And I know not to this day,Whether guest or captive I.

In this world with starry dome,Floored with gemlike plains and seas,Shall I never feel at home,Never wholly be at ease?

God, eldest of Poets.

Empires dissolve and peoples disappear, song passes not away.

Threadbare his songs seem now, to lettered ken: They were worn threadbare next the hearts of men.