We might be happy; but this clay will sink
Its spark immortal.”—Byron.
Return, my thoughts—come home!
Ye wild and wing’d! what do ye o’er the deep?
And wherefore thus the abyss of time o’ersweep,
As birds the ocean-foam?
Swifter than shooting-star,
Swifter than lances of the northern-light,
Upspringing through the purple heaven of night,
Hath been your course afar!