"By any influence of the kindly air,
Singing, as each took flight, 'The Future—that's
Our destination, mists turn rainbows there,
"'Which sink to fog, confounded in the flats
O' the Present! Day's the song-time for the lark,
Night for her music boasts but owls and bats.
"'And what's the Past but night—the deep and dark
Ice-spring I speak of, corpse-thicked with its drowned
Dead fancies which no sooner touched the mark
"'They aimed at—fact—than all at once they found