And enters no desire. So strange—this peace.
My infant eyes oped on a shaking isle,
And I was cradled in my father's wars.
O soon, too soon, I knew woe's touch of death!
But these are living days—days to be wreathed
With memory's stars, and circled new each morn
With pearls iridian from regretful eyes
That they—such days—can pass.
Aris. Eternity
Looked once upon the world, where lingers yet