The Immortal

By George Sterling

Oh! sad or sweet are all the lapsing days,
    The days that crown themselves with stars, and die;
    And sweet the sea-wind's unenduring sigh,
Or morning larks' involuntary lays.
Deep cut in music's crystal. Green the ways
    On which the feet of Spring to Summer fly;
    But song and wind and hue, we know not why,
Pass, and the very stars put by their rays.

Transition is upon the ancient skies
    And change upon the mountain's granite brow;
No life is fashioned but another dies.
        No splendor given unto earth but we
    Regret at last its close: thou, only thou.
        Dost give me dreams of immortality.


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