Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Gree… Long since, saw Byron’s struggle… But one such death remain’d to com… The last poetic voice is dumb. What shall be said o’er Wordswort…

Ye storm-winds of Autumn Who rush by, who shake The window, and ruffle The gleam-lighted lake; Who cross to the hill-side

Each on his own strict line we mov… And some find death ere they find… So far apart their lives are throw… From the twin soul that halves the… And sometimes, by still harder fat…

Before man parted for this earthly… While yet upon the verge of heaven… God put a heap of letters in his h… And bade him make with them what w… And man has turn’d them many times…

Because thou hast believ’d, the wh… Stand never idle, but go always ro… Not by their hands, who vex the pa… Mov’d only; but by genius, in the… Of all its chafing torrents after…

Through Alpine meadows soft-suffu… With rain, where thick the crocus… Past the dark forges long disused, The mule-track from Saint Laurent… The bridge is cross’d, and slow we…

Again I see my bliss at hand; The town, the lake are here. My Marguerite smiles upon the str… Unalter’d with the year. I know that graceful figure fair,

How changed is here each spot man… In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps… The village street its haunted man… And from the sign is gone Sibylla… And from the roofs the twisted chi…

Long fed on boundless hopes, O ra… How angrily thou spurn’st all simp… “Christ,” some one says, “was huma… No judge eyes us from Heaven, our… We live no more, when we have done…

Set where the upper streams of Si… Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock… And Hector was in Ilium, far belo… And fought, and saw it not—but the… It stood, and sun and moonshine ra…

AS the kindling glances, Queen-like and clear, Which the bright moon lances From her tranquil sphere At the sleepless waters

We, O Nature, depart, Thou survivest us! this, This, I know, is the law. Yes! but more than this, Thou who seest us die

JOY comes and goes: hope ebbs and… Like the wave. Change doth unknit the tranquil st… Love lends life a little grace, A few sad smiles: and then,

Glion?—Ah, twenty years, it cuts All meaning from a name! White houses prank where once were… Glion, but not the same! And yet I know not! All unchanged

That son of Italy who tried to bl… Ere Dante came, the trump of sacr… In his light youth amid a festal t… Sate with his bride to see a publi… Fair was the bride, and on her fro…