I shall have more to say when I am dead

He was himself and he had lost the speed He started with, and he was left behind.

The gods are growing old; The stars are singing Golden hair to gray Green leaf to yellow leaf,—or chlorophyl To xanthophyl, to be more scientific.

No matter what we are, and what we sing, Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel

Oh for a poet - for a beacon bright

You have made The cement of your churches out of tears And ashes, and the fabric will not stand.

We are young And we are friends of time.