Why is it the prizes we toil for,
So tempting in fancy’s mould cast,
Prove, when to our lips we have pressed them,
Only apples of Sodom at last?
And why are the crowns, and the crosses,
So wondrous unequally classed?
Ask it, ye, over and over,
Let the winds waft your question on high,
Till memory wanes with the ages,
Till the stars in eternity die.