Scorn you I do, while pitying even more
The ignoble weakness of a strength debased
Do I yet mourn the faith that died of yore,
The trust by timorous treachery effaced?
Through all, and over all my soul mounts free
To heights of peace you cannot hope to gain,
Sings to the stars its mountain minstrelsy,
And smiles down proudly on your murky plain;
'Tis vain to invite you—yet come up, come up,
Conquer your way toward the mountain top.
VERSES FOR M
The river on the east
Ripples its azure flood within my sight,
And, darting from the west,
Are sunset arrows feathered with red light;
The northern wind has hung
His wintry harp upon some giant pine,
And the pale stars among
I see the stars I love to name as mine,
But toward the south I turn my eager eyes—
Beyond its flushed horizon my heart lies.
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