Across these wind-swept waves of Time
Whose murmurings fill our listening ear,
Old thoughts, old deeds befitting rhyme—
Yours still shines clear.
II
YET WHEREFORE
Yet wherefore was this early light,
This glowing hope, this promise sent,
If, ere ’twas even marked aright,
It sank—it went?
We ask. But silence, grey, sedate,