And accost them one by one.
Then our limbs they jostle in thunder-mirth,
And the storm-fires flash again;
But baffled and weary they sink to earth,
And the monarch-stems remain.
The passage of years doth not move us much,
And Time himself grows old
Ere we bow to his flight, or feel his touch
In our "limbs of giant mould."
And the dwarfs of the wood, by decay oppressed,