TO MADAME GARSCHINE
What is the face, the fairest face, till Care,
Till Care the graver—Care with cunning hand,
Etches content thereon and makes it fair,
Or constancy, and love, and makes it grand?
MUSIC AT THE VILLA MARINA
For some abiding central source of power,
Strong-smitten steady chords, ye seem to flow
And, flowing, carry virtue. Far below,
The vain tumultuous passions of the hour
Fleet fast and disappear; and as the sun
Shines on the wake of tempests, there is cast
O'er all the shattered ruins of my past
A strong contentment as of battles won.
And yet I cry in anguish, as I hear
The long drawn pageant of your passage roll
Magnificently forth into the night.
To yon fair land ye come from, to yon sphere
Of strength and love where now ye shape your flight,
O even wings of music, bear my soul!