I count it true which sages teach—
That passion sways not with repose,
That love, confounding these with those,
Is ever welding each with each.
And so when time has ebbed away,
Like childish wreaths too lightly held,
The song of immemorial eld
Shall moan about the belted bay,
Where slant Orion slopes his star,
To swelter in the rolling seas,