Nor yield our senses to the potent spell;
Nor hearken to the song that o’er us goes;
“No joy that tongue can tell
Is like what enters thro’ the avenue of smell!”
III.
Hateful is the pea-green sky,
Hanging o’er the pea-green sea—
Life ends in smoke, oh! why
Should life all labor be?
Let us alone. We do not want to go!