On life, have merry hours, that fly too swift,
To dancing measures, but our dying eyes
See stretched before us all eternity,
That passes never. Voices come to me
Out of the deep, insurgent spirits throng
The gloomy portals, through which I must pass,
Blown like autumnal leaves, in whirling flight,
Above the dim untenanted abyss.
Some have their faces darkened, as they fade
Into that darkness; others, issuing thence,