Of fruits our lips have tried.
In sterile hope of this uncertain fame
Man to the tide commits a cherished name;
From day to day wanes its receding light;
With the bright wreck Time’s billow sports—yet on
Year after year it floats—then plunges down,
Whelmed in the abyss of night.
One bark the more I launch upon the deep,
To sink or float, sport of the tempest’s sweep.
Can it avail me, if a name remain?