Look at this skin—at fourscore years

Look at his skin—at four-score years
—How fresh it gleams and fair:
He never tasted ill-dressed food,
—Or breathed in tainted air.
The noble blood glows through his veins
—Still, with a healthful pink;
His brow scarce wrinkled!—Brows keep so
—That have not got to think.

Death is the ocean of immortal rest

Death is the ocean of immortal rest:
And what is sleep? A bath our Angel brings
Of the same lymph, fed by the self-same springs:
Dip in it, and freshen the despondent breast,
And taste the salt breath of the great wide sea,
Where shines 'mid laughing waves a far-off isle for me.

And yet, Earine, do violets white

And yet, Earine, do violets white
In thy sweet season kiss the wooing south;
Still hath the cyclamen its ruddy mouth,
And five fine petals made of liquid light:
Still at the early dawn's delicious burst
A myriad tawny throats their music have dispersed.

But we have mortal form, material tissue

But we have mortal form, material tissue;
And as the heavy centuries come and go,
Closer the clay clings, wearier human woe,
Fewer the lips wherefrom true song may issue.
More sluggishly the poet's pulses stir
Than when the gay Greek wore the golden grasshopper.

Anacreon's tettix, singing in the trees

Anacreon's tettix, singing in the trees,
Unworn by age, and like the gods therein—
Or the amorous thrush, that does at dawn begin,
Nor ceases till there's sunset on the seas:
These are the lords of melody, for whom
Earth has no touch of sadness, death no dream of doom.

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