And Thou, Who Didst The Stars And

The Sea Of Faith Was Once, Too, At The Full, And Round Earth's Shore Lay Like The Folds Of A Bright Girdle Furled. But Now I Only Hear Its Melancholy, Long, Withdrawing Roar, Retreating, To The Breath Of The Night-wind, Down The Vast Edges Drear And Naked Shingles Of The World.

Be Neither Saint Nor Sophist-led, But Be A Man.

Physician Of The Iron Age, Goethe Has Done His Pilgrimage. He Took The Suffering Human Race, He Read Each Wound, Each Weakness Clear -- And Struck His Finger On The Place, And Said -- Thou Ailest Here, And Here.

Goethe In Weimar Sleeps, And Greece, Long Since, Saw Byron 's Struggle Cease.

The Bloom Is Gone, And With The Bloom Go I.