Of life’s wind-swept and unfrequented ball.
I drew the nothings that my soul enjoyed;
The pretty image of the enormous fact
I fled; and when the sun soared over all
And threw a brightness on the painted tract.
Lo, the vain lines were reading on the wall!
In vain we blink; our life about us lies
O’erscrawled with crooked mist; we toil in vain
To hear the hymn of ancient harmonies
That quire upon the mountains as the plain;
And from the august silence of the skies
Babble of speech returns to us again.
THE TOUCH OF LIFE
I saw a circle in a garden sit
Of dainty dames and solemn cavaliers,
Whereof some shuddered at the burrowing nit,
And at the carrion worm some burst in tears;
And all, as envying the abhorred estate
Of empty shades and disembodied elves,