Lo, the book I hold here

Even on the white English crags A few strong spirits, in a race that binds Its body in chains and calls them Liberty, And calls each fresh link Progress, stood erect With faces pale that hunger'd to the light.

Full of a sweet indifference.

Believing hath a core of unbelieving.

I ask no more from mortals Than your beautiful face implies,— The beauty the artist beholding Interprets and sanctifies. Who says that men have fallen, That life is wretched and rough?

I saw the starry Tree Eternity Put forth the blossom Time.

Their hearts and sentiments were free, their appetites were hearty.