Page:Ethel Churchill 2.pdf/75

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All things are symbols; and we find In morning's lovely prime, The actual history of the mind In its own early time: So, to the youthful poet's gaze, A thousand colours rise,— The beautiful which soon decays, The buoyant which soon dies.

So does not die their influence, The spirit owns the spell; Memory to him is music—hence The magic of his shell. He sings of general hopes and fears— A universal tone; All weep with him, for in his tears They recognise their own.

Yet many a one, whose lute hangs now High on the laurel tree, Feels that the cypress' dark bough A fitter meed would be: