Their hearts and sentiments were free, their appetites were hearty. - Robert Williams Buchanan

Lo, the book I hold here, In the city cold here ! I hold it with a gentle hand and love it as I may; Lo, the weary moments! Lo, the icy comments! And lo, false Fortune's knife of gold swift-lifted up to slay! Has the strife no ending? Has the song no meaning? Linger I, idle as of old, while men are reaping or gleaning?

I, who loved and knew you, In the city that slew you, Still hunger on, and thirst, and climb, proud-hearted and alone: Serpent-fears enfold me, Syren-visions hold me, And, like a wave, I gather strength, and gathering strength, I moan; Yea, the pale moon beckons, Still I follow, aching, And gather strength, only to make a louder moan, in breaking!

I ask no more from mortals
Than your beautiful face implies,— The beauty the artist beholding Interprets and sanctifies. Who says that men have fallen, That life is wretched and rough? I say, the world is lovely, And that loveliness is enough. So my doubting days are ended,
And the labour of life seems clear; And life hums deeply around me,
Just like the murmur here, And quickens the sense of living, And shapes me for peace and storm,— And dims my eyes with gladness When it glides into colour and form!