The glory of old thought is still, and cold, and gray,
Like gardens unrenewed beneath the sterile moon.
LOVERS
Whate’er our joy compelled, men’s praise and blame fall hollow,
A voice upon the winds that drown it as they blow:
So fair a vision led, our thought was all to follow;
So strong a passion urged, our will was all to go.
Helen Hoyt
ELLIS PARK
Little park that I pass through,