Ill-timed and aimless, now a nation
Has bartered Freedom at its forum,
Where statesmen wait to find a quorum.
THE INNERMOST.
I would not like to think my song will die into the arching night;
I would not like to think my soul will lose itself in morning light;
But I would have my song increase and star some little world with peace;
My soul, with beauty stretching far should be the spirit of that star.
THE AUTUMN RAIN.
Mother of Darkness, Mother of Pain,