And, golden-fair, replete with promise, glows
The radiant Sun above.
“The major half of life?
Love scars the soul, as ’twere a searing brand:
Ambition turns to ashes in our hand,
Nor, ’til the glass has spilled its latest sand,
Comes rest from urge and strife.
“O Birth! thou wanton wight
That dost with smiles enmask thy mocking eyes!
How dost thou cheat the unborn soul that flies