Till at the gate of dark oblivion's lands
We see afar the white shores of the dying.
Juvenilia.
XXII CARNIVAL
VOICE FROM THE PALACE
Couldst thou, O north wind, coming
From the deep bosom of the moaning valley,
Or, wandering in the aisles of songful pines,
Or through a lonely cloister's corridors,
Chant to me in a thousand sounds—