The Mighty Rain Holds The Vast Empire

The Little Wind-flower, Whose Just Opened Eye Is Blue As The Spring Heaven It Gazes At.

Ah, Passing Few Are They Who Speak, Wild, Stormy Month! In Praise Of Thee; Yet Though Thy Winds Are Loud And Bleak, Thou Art A Welcome Month To Me. For Thou, To Northern Lands, Again The Glad And Glorious Sun Dost Bring, And Thou Hast Joined The Gentle Train And Wear'st The Gentle Name Of Spring.

Truth, Crushed To Earth, Shall Rise Again.

And The Blue Gentian-flower, That, In The Breeze, Nods Lonely, Of Her Beauteous Race The Last.

Oh, River! Darkling River! What A Voice Is That Thou Utterest While All Else Is Still-- The Ancient Voice That, Centuries Ago, Sounded Between Thy Hills, While Rome Was Yet A Weedy Solitude By Tiber's Stream!