To beat the bars of that arbitrament
That metes to mortals pleasurement or pain!
How vain!—how vain!—and yet
We beat upon them, and we only gain
The poignance of regret!
XXIII
Autumn again with all its loveliness;
Autumn again that brought an end to joy,
Despite the sight of earth in amber dress,
And airs that bear the blitheness of a boy!