LXXIV.
There are swift hours in life—strong, rushing hours,
That do the work of tempests in their might!
They shake down things that stood as rocks and towers
Unto th’ undoubting mind; they pour in light
Where it but startles—like a burst of day
For which th’ uprooting of an oak makes way;
They sweep the colouring mists from off our sight;
They touch with fire thought’s graven page, the roll
Stamp’d with past years—and lo! it shrivels as a scroll!