Then comes the unconscious night.
Let him lament, who pressed with eager fears,
Clings like the ivy, to the wreck of years;
Whose hope can hail no future, holier morn:—
I, who have held in earth nor root nor seed,
Pass without effort, like the fragile weed
On evening breezes borne.
Like is the poet to the birds of flight
Which shun the strand that ocean crests with white,
Nor seek mid forest shades their brief repose;