Guy Wetmore Carryl

“ Amid the throng of little ones at play,
Gowned in their ashen robes of vain regret!
Ah, first love of my young, believing heart,
Haven of my hopes, white light across my fears,
How strange it is to think the empty years
Might of this heaven have granted us a part!
How slow upon the air the music dies! ”

“ Most gaily. Like some sweep of beachway, blown
Empty by west-born winds, the tapering line
Of path and drive swelled up the rising ground
Toward the Arch, deserted, and I found
The most majestic mile in Europe mine! ”