Where are those lovers of yours, on what name do they call The lost, that in armies wept over your funeral pall? They call on the names of a hundred high-valiant ones, A hundred white eagles have risen the sons of your sons, The zeal in their wings is a zeal that your dreaming began The valor that wore out your soul in the service of man. Sleep softly, * * * eagle forgotten, * * * under the stone, Time has its way with you there and the clay has its own. Sleep on, O brave hearted, O wise man, that kindled the flame-- To live in mankind is far more than to live in a name, To live in mankind, far, far more * * * than to live in a name. Shakespeare Would that in body and spirit Shakespeare came Visible emperor of the deeds of Time, With Justice still the genius of his rhyme, Giving each man his due, each passion grace, Impartial as the rain from Heaven's face Or sunshine from the heaven-enthroned sun. Sweet Swan of Avon, come to us again. Teach us to write, and writing, to be men. Michelangelo Would I might wake in you the whirl-wind soul Of Michelangelo, who hewed the stone And Night and Day revealed, whose arm alone Could draw the face of God, the titan high Whose genius smote like lightning from the sky-- And shall he mold like dead leaves in the grave? Nay he is in us! Let us dare and dare. God help us to be brave. Titian Would that such hills and cities round us sang, Such vistas of the actual earth and man As kindled Titian when his life began; Would that this latter Greek could put his gold, Wisdom and splendor in our brushes bold Till Greece and Venice, children of the sun, Become our every-day, and we aspire To colors fairer far, and glories higher. Lincoln Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all, That which is gendered in the wilderness From lonely prairies and God's tenderness. Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream, Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream, Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave, Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire-- Fire that freed the slave. The Cornfields The cornfields rise above mankind, Lifting white torches to the blue, Each season not ashamed to be Magnificently decked for you. What right have you to call them yours, And in brute lust of riches burn Without some radiant penance wrought, Some beautiful, devout return? Sweet Briars of the Stairways We are happy all the time Even when we fight: Sweet briars of the stairways, Gay fairies of the grime; WE, WHO ARE PLAYING TO-NIGHT. "Our feet are in the gutters, Our eyes are sore with dust, But still our eyes are bright. The wide street roars and mutters-- We know it works because it must-- WE, WHO ARE PLAYING TO-NIGHT!