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- And once I knew a meditative rose
- That never raised its head from bowing down,
- Yet drew its inspiration from the stars.
- It bloomed and faded here beside the road,
- And, being a poet, wrote on empty air
- With fragrance all the beauty of its soul.
HENRY ABBEY, "A Morning Pastoral"
- The artist labors while he may,
- But finds at best too brief the day;
- And, tho' his works outlast the time
- And nation that they make sublime,
- He feels and sees that Nature knows
- Nothing of time in what she does,
- But has a leisure infinite
- Wherein to do her work aright.
HENRY ABBEY, "Along the Nile"
- Most men are prisoners at best,
- Who some strong habit every drag about
- Like chain and ball.
HENRY ABBEY, "The Galley Slave"
- Envy is the coward side of Hate,
- And all her ways are bleak and desolate.
HENRY ABBEY, "The Host's Humility"
- Love is the key-note of the universe--
- The theme, the melody.
HENRY ABBEY, "The Troubadour"
- Life is the wave's deep whisper on the shore
- Of a great sea beyond.
HENRY ABBEY, "The Roman Sentinel"
- Though Duty's face is stern, her path is best:
- They sweetly sleep who die upon her breast.
HENRY ABBEY, "The Roman Sentinel"
- Our yesterdays
- Are like a lonely and a ruined land
- Wherein a breeze of recollection sighs--
- A fading land to which is no return.
HENRY ABBEY, "Invocation to the Sun"
- All governments,
- Books, customs, buildings, railways, ships, and all
- The stark realities that men have made,
- Are but imagination's utterances.
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