Far off in a breezeless main,
Which many a bark, with a weary quest,
Has sought, but still in vain.
Yet is not life, in its real flight,
Mark’d thus—even thus—on earth,
By the closing of one hope’s delight,
And another’s gentle birth?
Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower,
Shutting in turn, may leave
A lingerer still for the sunset hour,