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How the old mountains drip with sunset, And the brake of dun! How the hemlocks are tipped in tinsel By the wizard sun! How the old steeples hand the scarlet, Till the ball is full, -- Have I the lip of the flamingo That I dare to tell? Then, how the fire ebbs like billows, Touching all the grass With a departing, sapphire feature, As if a duchess pass! How a small dusk crawls on the village Till the houses blot; And the odd flambeaux no men carry Glimmer on the spot! Now it is night in nest and kennel, And where was the wood, Just a dome of abyss is nodding Into solitude! -- These are the visions baffled Guido; Titian never told; Domenichino dropped the pencil, Powerless to unfold.
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I cannot live with you.
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Death is a Dialogue between, The Spirit and the Dust.
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If I can stop one Heart from breaking I shall not live in vain If I can ease one Life the Aching, or cool one Pain, Or help one fainting Robin into his Nest again, I shall not live in Vain.
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Hope is a thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without words And never stops at all.
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