That Which In England We Call The

To Hear The World Applaud The Hollow Ghost Which Blamed The Living Man.

Truth Sits Upon The Lips Of Dying Men, And Falsehood, While I Lived, Was Far From Mine.

Oxus, Forgetting The Bright Speed He Had In His High Mountain Cradle In Pamere, A Foiled Circuitous Wanderertill At Last The Longed-for Dash Of Waves Is Heard, And Wide His Luminous Home Of Waters Opens, Bright And Tranquil, From Whose Floor The New-bathed Stars Emerge, And Shine Upon The Aral Sea.

Hither And Thither Spins The Wind-borne Mirroring Soul, A Thousand Glimpses Wins, And Never Sees A Whole.

Bald As The Bare Mountain Tops Are Bald, With A Baldness Full Of Grandeur.