With hop vines' incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.
And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreath entwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,
This spray of Western pine."

--

"Dark browed she broods with weary lids
Beside her Sphynx and Pyramids,
With her low, never lifted eyes.
If she be dead, respect the dead;
If she be weeping, let her weep;
If she be sleeping, let her sleep;
For lo, this woman named the stars.
She suckled at her tawny dugs
Your Moses, while ye reeked with wars
And prowled the woods, rude, painted thugs."

--

"The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart;
Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,
The humble and the contrite heart."

--

"Careless seems the Great Avenger,