Thomas Cole's poetry the collected poems of America's foremost painter of the Hudson River School reflecting his feelings for nature and the romantic spirit of the Nineteenth Century |
 |
 | Thomas Cole's poetry |  |
114
[49. Why do ye count your little months, your years]
Why do ye count your little months, your years,Or e'en your ages? They are nought: they are
The measure of your feeble breath, your fears.
Ye are as misers, hoarding up with care
A glittering mass, a cold insensate dust,
That ne'er to spirit can be changed: nor gold,
Nor years are chattles of the soul; they rust,
Or perish: her possession is the trust
In God; the love which tongue hath never told;
And immortality which death shall soon unfold.
December 26, 1839
| Thomas Cole's poetry | |