One Thing Only Has Been Lent To

For Poetry The Idea Is Everything; The Rest Is A World Of Illusion.

Ah! Two Desires Toss About The Poet's Feverish Blood; One Drives Him To The World Without, And One To Solitude.

Dreams Dawn And Fly: Friends Smile And Die, Like Spring Flowers. Our Vaunted Life Is One Long Funeral. Men Dig Graves, With Bitter Tears, For Their Dead Hopes; And All, Mazed With Doubts, And Sick With Fears, Count The Hours.

Now The Great Winds Shoreward Blow Now The Salt Tides Seaward Flow Now The Wild White Horses Play Champ And Chafe And Toss In The Spray.

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