All you boast is, "I had proved a topping tree
In other climes,"—yet this was the right clime
Had you foreknown the seasons. Young, you 've force
Wasted like well-streams: old,—oh, then indeed,
Behold a labyrinth of hydraulic pipes
Through which you 'd play off wondrous water-work;
Only, no water 's left to feed their play.
Young,—you 've a hope, an aim, a love; it 's tossed
And crossed and lost: you struggle on, some spark
Shut in your heart against the puffs around,