EPILOGUE.
Irene.
Not this way will you set your name
A star among the stars.
Not this way will you set your name
A star among the stars.
Poet.
What way?
What way?
Irene.
You praise when you should blame
The barbarism of wars.
A juster epoch has begun.
You praise when you should blame
The barbarism of wars.
A juster epoch has begun.
Poet.
Yet tho' this cheek be gray,
And that bright hair the modern sun,
Yet tho' this cheek be gray,
And that bright hair the modern sun,
