Page:Poems, now first collected, Stedman, 1897.djvu/82

FIN DE SIÈCLE Akin to this which thinks, acts, feels,—the soul

Of man, forever eddying like its source.

Passion and jest, the laugh and wail of earth,

High thought and speech, the rare considerings

Of beauty that to fairer art gives birth,

The winnowing of poesy's swift wings,—

These—though the hoary century inurn

Our great—no gathering mould of time shall clod:

They bide their hour, they pass but to return

With men, as now, the progeny of God.

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