That fashioned them, and the small rod,
Familiar to his touch for threescore years,
Lay on th’ alembic’s rim, as if it still
Might vex the elements at its master’s will.
And thus had passed from its unequal frame
A soul of fire,—a sun-bent eagle stricken.
From his high soaring, down,—an instrument
Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies,
Like the adventurous bird that hath outflown