Looking with bewildering distance out of wistful, alien eyes,
Never drawing any nearer, or to hate or sympathize.
Eager, dominant, all unresting are the spirits born of Fire,
Burning with a fitful fever, ever reaching high and higher,
Shrivelling weaker wills before them in the heat of their desire.
Cool, elusive, fluctuating, hard to fix and strangely fair
Are the difficult, grievous, grieving souls which born of Water are—
Ours to-day, not ours to-morrow; never ours to hold and wear.
Vainly love and passion battle ’gainst their unresisting chill,
Like the oar-stroke in the water which the drops make haste to fill,