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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

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[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