Life and Existence

Time will rust the sharpest sword, Time will consume the strongest cord; That which molders hemp and steel, Mortal arm and nerve must feel.

Vacant heart, and hand, and eye, Easy live and quiet die.

Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever!

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking.

And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but Death who comes at last.

The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seem’d to have known a better day.

Small service is true service while it lasts: Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one: The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.

The unimaginable touch of Time.

We feel that we are greater than we know.

Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour.

Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour.

Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.

And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine.

And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine.

The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober coloring from an eye That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober coloring from an eye That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower.

Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower.

To perish never.

O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!

The youth, who daily farther from the east At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

The youth, who daily farther from the east At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.

As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.