Saturday, November 21, 2015

The moment or the memory

Beech Lake

A Poet, too, was there, whose verse

Was tender, musical, and terse;

The inspiration, the delight,
The gleam, the glory, the swift flight,

Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem

The revelations of a dream,
All these were his; but with them came
No envy of another's fame;

He did not find his sleep less sweet,

For music in some neighboring street
Nor rustling hear in every breeze
The laurels of Miltiades.

Honor and blessings on his head

While living, good report when dead,
Who, not too eager for renown,
Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown!
Longfellow, The Prelude from The Wayside Inn

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