Who shall distinguish shape from show?
The great processional, splendid dream
Of life is all I wish to know.

The gods their faces turn away
From nations and their little wars;
But we our golden drama play
Before the footlights of the stars.

There lives -- though Time should cease to flow,
And stars their courses should forget --
There lives a grey-haired Romeo,
Who loves a golden Juliet.



Anna


The pale discrowned stacks of maize,
Like spectres in the sun,
Stand shivering nigh Avonaise,
Where all is dead and gone.

The sere leaves make a music vain,
With melancholy chords;
Like cries from some old battle-plain,
Like clash of phantom swords.

But when the maize was lush and green