Care, not of self, but of the common weal,
Had robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead
A look of patient power and iron will.
A Glance behind the Curtain.
Dear, common flower, that grow’st beside the way
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,
First pledge of blithesome May.
To the Dandelion.
Each man is some man’s servant; every soul
Is by some other’s presence quite discrowned;