Quatrains
The bubble
why should I stay? Nor seed nor fruit have I.
But, sprung at once to beauty’s perfect round,
Nor loss, nor gain, nor change in me is found,—
A life—complete in death—complete to die.
BECALMED
THE BAR is crossed; but Death—the pilot—stands
In seeming doubt before the tranquil deep;
The fathom-line still trembling in his hands,
As when upon the treacherous shoals of sleep.
FAME
THEIR noonday never knows
What names immortal are:
’T is night alone that shows
How star surpasseth star.