The least quick throb, a sacrificial hymn
To a great god who scorns the frown of Jove
That here it finds the awful power of love?
Think you the new-born babe in first wise sleep
Fathoms the gift the heavens have bade him keep
Yet if this be—if all these things are so—
Does the heart know?
[IN AUTUMN]
The gold-red leaves have burned
To their last great glow, and died