Euthumism
If in the spirit glows no spark divine;
If soulless dust return to dust again;
If, after life, but death and dark remain—
Then it were well to make the moment thine,
Bacchante-steeping soul and sense in wine,
In lotus-lulling languors, fond desires
That heat the heart with fierce, unhallowed fires—
Till Pleasure, Circe-like, transform us into swine.
But if some subtler spirit thrill our clay,
Some God-like flame illume this fleeting dust—
Promethean fire snatched from the Olympian height—
Then must we choose the nobler, higher Way,
Seeking the Beautiful, the Pure, the Just—
The ultimate crowned triumph of the Right!
Under the Leaves
The phalanxes of corn stand grim and serried,
Dull gold the sodden sheaves,
The violets that smiled with Spring are buried
Under the leaves.
Along the land the Winter's doom is creeping
All vainly Autumn grieves;
And she who made my heart's sweet Spring is sleeping
Under the leaves.