Live blindly and upon the hour. The Lord,
Who was the Future, died full
long ago.
Knowledge which is the Past is
folly. Go,
Poor, child, and be not to
thyself abhorred.
Around thine earth sun-winged winds
do blow
And planets roll; a meteor draws
his sword;
The rainbow breaks his
seven-coloured chord
And the long strips of
river-silver flow:
Awake! Give thyself to the lovely
hours.
Drinking their lips, catch thou
the dream in flight
About their fragile hairs' aerial
gold.
Thou art divine, thou livest,—as
of old
Apollo springing naked to the
light,
And all his island shivered into
flowers.
Trumbull
Stickney
(Picture: The storm, Wojciech Siudmak)
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