Powerless before the unimpassioned Doom
The form of beauty and the lofty mind;
The shuttle speeds athwart the fatal loom—
Our lots are woven as the threads unwind.
Sorrow and gladness intertwined are ours,
Or woe unmixed, or pleasure undefiled;
Exult not, though thy path be strewn with flowers,
Oft mid their bloom the venomed asp lies coiled.
On the dark billows of the sea of fate
Full many a glorious shape floats wrecked and pale;