Each moment fainter wave the fields
And wider rolls the sea;
The mist grows dark,—the sun goes down,—
Day breaks,—and where are we?
Departed Days.
Flowers will bloom over and over again in poems as in the summer fields, to the end of time, always old and always new. Why should we be more shy of repeating ourselves than the spring be tired of blossoms or the night of stars?—The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table.
God of all nations! Sovereign Lord!
In Thy dread name we draw the sword,
We lift the starry flag on high