The earthen vessel and the wine
In strength are made proportionate.
Ah, lay them by where they have lain!
The years to come shall swell their list,
The sun shall rise through sorrow's mist
And set in whelming clouds again.
Poor worthless scraps! they have outworn
The fickle moods that gave them birth,
Yet neither I nor they are worth
The critic's undivided scorn.