Seem to invest the brain—possess,
It with the sense of fruitlessness
Of fevered rush, of frenzied strain
Whose life is toil, whose end is pain.
Then off! small brother-elves, we say
Hence with your idle pranks, away!
Let rather silence obdurate,
Rock palaces, severe as fate,
Brown deserts, or the entrenchant gloom
Of vacant cities, which some doom