Like rivers from their fountains rolling on.
For Time, no more than streams, is at a stay,—
The flying hour is ever on her way;
And as the fountain still supplies her store,
The wave behind impels the wave before;
Thus in successive course the minutes run,
And urge their predecessor minutes on,
Still moving, ever anew; for former things
Are set aside, like abdicated kings;
And every moment alters what is done,