The greatest foe to art is luxury, art cannot live in its atmosphere

O thrush, your song is passing sweet But never a song that you have sung, Is half so sweet as thrushes sang When my dear Love and I were young.

The majesty That from man's soul looks through his eager eyes.

Now such an one for daughter Creon had As maketh wise men fools and young men mad.

I know a little garden-close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering.

Wert thou more fickle than the restless sea, Still should I love thee, knowing thee for such.

From out the throng and stress of lies, From out the painful noise of sighs, One voice of comfort seems to rise: "It is the meaner part that dies."