His nails were driven deep, as if the throe
Of the last agony had wrung him sore.
The storm was raging still. The shutter swung,
Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind,
And all without went on,—as aye it will,
Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart
Is breaking, or has broken, in its change.
The fire beneath the crucible was out.
The vessels of his mystic art lay round,
Useless and cold as the ambitious hand