So hath he hunted down the gods

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?

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.

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

Full of a sweet indifference.

Believing hath a core of unbelieving.

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