For Time may come with gems and flowers,
But lo! they are not always ours!
But lo! they are not always ours!
He raised his head, the gray bird's gaze
Kindled with deep prophetic blaze,
And with a flush of glad surprise
The master peered in those wild eyes,
Fading again to filmy veil,
And there, as in a desert pale,
He saw himself in rags and woe—
Only himself—deserted, lone,
And closed his eyes no more to know,
His life-long vigil closed and done;
And o'er him gurgled elfish laughter—
The owl's last rite—no more hereafter!
Kindled with deep prophetic blaze,
And with a flush of glad surprise
The master peered in those wild eyes,
Fading again to filmy veil,
And there, as in a desert pale,
He saw himself in rags and woe—
Only himself—deserted, lone,
And closed his eyes no more to know,
His life-long vigil closed and done;
And o'er him gurgled elfish laughter—
The owl's last rite—no more hereafter!
PORTLAND
But yesterday, and sombre firs
Thronged here—the kingly chroniclers
Of lapsing and lethean time,
And day, in golden armor drest,
Swept through the gates of East and West,
And night, with many a silv'ry sail,
Led by the moon, serene and pale,
Rode the blue seas of space sublime.
Thronged here—the kingly chroniclers
Of lapsing and lethean time,
And day, in golden armor drest,
Swept through the gates of East and West,
And night, with many a silv'ry sail,
Led by the moon, serene and pale,
Rode the blue seas of space sublime.
Dreamy and dark, the forest trees
Trembled with potent prophecies,
And spread broad palms in mystic sign,
As in his slender carved canoe,
Trembled with potent prophecies,
And spread broad palms in mystic sign,
As in his slender carved canoe,
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