Publisher's Synopsis
I know the hills that lift the distant plain, The college hall-the spirit of its throngs, The meadows and the waving fields of grain, Full well I know their colors and their songs. I know the storied gates where love was told, The grove where walked the muses and the seers, The river, dark or touched with light of gold, Or slow, or swift so like the flowing years .I know not these who sadly sit them down And while the night in half-forgotten days; I know not these who wear the hoary crown And find a pathos in the merry lays. Here Memory, with old wisdom on her lips, A finger points at each familiar name-Some writ on water, stone or stranded ships, Some in the music of the trump of fame.
