My devious soul again to you,
Sweep from the years regret—how vain—
And give pure Bliss her own again?
Alas! the kindly magic palls,
Its spell dies off; even it recalls,
Even you recall the strain, the stress
Of life’s consummate restlessness.
“Life, let it come in any guise,
Is life,” we say, and over-wise
Our soul informs with its own hue