 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | IV. |
|
| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
| V. |
| VI. |
 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
210
A morning peacefuller than the calmest eve—
Some meaning there must lurk in such a calm.
Tells it of death, or something after death?
The grey lake hath its gleam and naught beside:
If it had wrong last night, to-day it plains not;
No ripple prints its sands; no sailing cloud
Is imaged in its bosom; not a bird
Flutes 'mid the reeds or streaks the level mere.
The autumn-reddened copses lose their red
In vapoury distance. Nature's latest sigh
Is breathed—like mine—and now for both is stillness.
Lasts it for aye, that stillness? Lo! I drop
A pebble o'er the water. Hark, a sound!
The pebble sinks: some petty bubbles rise:
Twinkle; then break. When this, our Gothic realm
Built by my Sire, Theodoric, meets its term
Like yonder pebble it will sink, send up
That bubble from the waters of oblivion
Which men call Fame, and in a moment more
Be gathered to the dark.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |