The Hushed Winds Their Sabbath Keep.

A Sculptor Wields The Chisel, And The Stricken Marble Grows To Beauty.

Pain Dies Quickly, And Lets Her Weary Prisoners Go; The Fiercest Agonies Have Shortest Reign.

Loveliest Of Lovely Things Are They, On Earth, That Soonest Pass Away. The Rose That Lives Its Little Hour Is Prized Beyond The Sculptured Flower.

Hark To That Shrill, Sudden Shout, The Cry Of An Applauding Multitude, Swayed By Some Loud-voiced Orator Who Wields The Living Mass As If He Were Its Soul!

Lo! While We Are Gazing, In Swifter Haste Stream Down The Snows, Till The Air Is White, As, Myriads By Myriads Madly Chased, They Fling Themselves From Their Shadowy Height. The Fair, Frail Creatures Of Middle Sky, What Speed They Make, With Their Grave So Nigh; Flake After Flake, To Lie In The Dark And Silent Lake!