David Given Schwarm

       The splendours of the firmament of time
       May be eclips’d, but are extinguish’d not;
       Like stars to their appointed height they climb,
       And death is a low mist which cannot blot
       The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought
       Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair,
       And love and life contend in it for what
       Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there
And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air.