Who drives the horses of the sun Shall lord it but a day; Better the lowly deed were done, And kept the humble way. The rust will find the sword of fame, The dust will hide the crown; Ay, none shall nail so high his name Time will not tear it down. The happiest heart that ever beat Was in some quiet breast That found the common daylight sweet, And left to Heaven the rest.
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(In Memoriam, May 30) I. TOLL the slow bell, Toll the low bell, Toll, toll, Make dole For them that wrought so well. Come, come, With muffled drum And wailing lorn Of dolorous horn; The solemn measure slow Toll and beat and blow; Put out all glories that adorn The sweet, unheeding morn. Come,... |
“Let us a little permit Nature to take her own way: she better understands her own affairs than we.” —MONTAIGNE, Of Experience. NATURE reads not our labels, “great” and “small”; Accepts she one and all Who, striving, win and hold the vacant place; All are of royal race. Him, there, rough-... |
Who drives the horses of the sun Shall lord it but a day; Better the lowly deed were done, And kept the humble way. The rust will find the sword of fame, The dust will hide the crown; Ay, none shall nail so high his name Time will not tear it down. The happiest heart that ever beat Was in some... |
Nature reads not our labels, “great” and “small”; Accepts she one and all Who, striving, win and hold the vacant place; All are of royal race. Him, there, rough-cast, with rigid arm and limb, The Mother moulded him, Of his rude realm ruler and demigod, Lord of the rock and clod. With Nature is... |
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Whither leads this pathway, little one?— It runs just on and on, is never done. Whither leads this pathway, mistress fair?— That path to town, sir; to the village square. Whither leads this pathway, father old?— To the white quiet of the churchyard fold. |
