To where ambitious flights must end!—
For still Earth’s proudest crown and laurel,
Mock poor mortality!”
GATHER RIPE FRUIT, OH DEATH!
Gather ripe fruit, oh death! exclaims the gifted,
Full of fresh blossoms for the ripening hour;
Adown whose sky the clouds afar have drifted—
Whose golden hopes are gilding bud and flower;
Who, through the vista long, of years advancing,