Page:In memoriam (IA inmemoriam00tennrich).pdf/167

 Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey By each cold hearth, and sadness flings Her shadow on the blaze of kings: And yet myself have heard him say,

That not in any mother town With statelier progress to and fro The double tides of chariots flow By park and suburb under brown

Of lustier leaves; nor more content, He told me, lives in any crowd, When all is gay with lamps, and loud With sport and song, in booth and tent,

Imperial halls, or open plain; And wheels the circled dance, and breaks The rocket molten into flakes Of crimson or in emerald rain.