These tenants of th’ ethereal blue.
We know you all too well, too long,
Your hues, your gambols, and your song;
You cannot think to cheat our eyes
With hope of any new surprise,
Your brightest shows, your deftest wiles
Are trite to us as oft-seen smiles
On some familiar face; as trite
As Time’s unconquerable flight;
Trite as the cradle-songs which haunt