Attaining no sure goal:
Yet blither than a younger heart
At crucible and glass retort
He labored; for his love was prism
To irisate toil's egoism.
He drained wan draughts from out a cup,
A globe of vague and flaming gold,
Held from the darkness, brimming up,
By something white and cold,
That wreathed faint fingers round its brim,