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?

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

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

Full of a sweet indifference.

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.

O Balder, he who fashion’d us, And bade us live and move, Shall weave for Death’s sad heavenly hair Immortal flowers of love.