Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/1059

 Say, heart, is there aught like this In a world that is full of bliss? 'Tis more than skating, bound Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float Awhile in my airy boat; Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill Must end in a vale; but still, Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, Shall find wings waiting there.

BLISS CARMAN

b. 1861

857. Why

For a name unknown, Whose fame unblown Sleeps in the hills For ever and aye;

For her who hears The stir of the years Go by on the wind By night and day;

And heeds no thing Of the needs of spring, Of autumn's wonder Or winter's chill;