Wind
But you would rather love and do. 
Well said, so much the wiser you! 
But let your love be false as maid’s,
Your every fire a flame that fades—­
A word, a smile, an easy thing
To fledge and easy taking wing. 
Kiss every lip, as tired of rest
As I am now.  I’m off to west
Good-bye, and some day when you’re hot
I’ll meet you cool.

Cloud
And I should not
Delay my showers so long as this. 
God speed!  Good-bye!

Randolph
                     Good-bye. 
                               I miss
Their wonderful companionship. 
So onward seems the world to slip. 
Now one glance backward firmly cast;
Thy next foot forward bears thee past
The mountain’s crest.  Ah, I behold
Our reckless river leaping bold
Down all its ledges.  And I see
The castle where Elaine must be. 
Lo, in yon window sits she oft.—­
From yon green maze of willows soft
I hear our hermitage’s bell. 
Sweet sound, sweet many scenes, farewell. 
        Elaine!  Elaine!

CUJUS ANIMAE PROPICIETUR DEUS.

A quiet, old cathedral folds apart
  At Oxford, from the world of colleges
A world of tombs, and shades them in its heart;
  Contrasting with the busy knowledges
This wisdom, that they all shall end in peace.—­
“Vex you not, slaves of truth! there is release.”

There every window is a monument
  Emblazoned:  every slab along the pave,
Each effigy with knees devoutly bent,—­
  Or prone, with folded gauntlets,—­is a grave. 
Unnoticed down the sands of Kronos run: 
Slow move the sombre shadows with the sun.

Hard by a Norman shaft, along the floor
  A portraiture on ancient bronze designed
In Academic hood and robes of yore,
  Commemorates some by-gone lord of mind. 
Mournful the face and dignified the head: 
A man who pondered much upon the dead.

Repose unbroken now his dust surrounds,
  He is with those whom mortals honor most. 
Respect and tender sighs and holy sounds
  Of choirs, and the presence of the Holy Ghost
And fellow spirits and shadowy mem’ries dear
Make for his rest a sacred atmosphere.

Sometime a gentle and profound Divine,
  Father revered of spiritual sons. 
He died.  They laid him here.  About his shrine,
  Of what they wrote this remnant legend runs: 
“Nascitur omnis homo peccato mortuus
Una post cineres virtus vivere sola facit."[A]

There as I breathed the lesson of the dead: 
Sudden the rich bells chorussed overhead: 
  “O be not of the throng ephemeral
    To whom to-day is fame, to-morrow fate,
  Proud of some robe no statelier than a pall,
  Mad for some wreath of cypress funeral—­
    A phantom generation fatuate. 
Stand thou aside and stretch a hand to save,
Virtue alone revives beyond the grave.”