[pg 75] Galloped, maybe, among the dells,
And airy sprites wove fitful spells
Of gossamer and cold moonshine
Which do most mistily entwine:
And ever the hills called, and a voice
Cried: “Soon, maybe, comes thy choice
Twixt mortal immortality
Such as shall never be again,
’Twixt the most passionate-pleasant pain
And all the quiet, barren joys