Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,
Pale, cypress-crowned, Night’s awful daughter,
And proffered him a fearful cup
Full to the brim of bitter water:
Poor Childhood bade her tell her name;
And when the beldame muttered, “Sorrow,”
He said, “Don’t interrupt my game;
I’ll taste it, if I must, to-morrow.” ...
Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,
And taught him with most sage endeavour,