Warbled in bliss of upper air,
May with the one death-song compare
That floats among the reeds, and blends
With wild wind's plaint, till silence ends
In haunt remote
Sweet life and song;
They float away the reeds among.
"I beware me of types," he continued, "though I know nothing real. I am surrounded by images, my present state of being is a shadow, but I crave reality. The symbol is fair, but Truth is fairer. To that verity all types must yield, how beautiful soever they be, or meet to express their burden."
And yet how dear the transient joys of time,