Sure time with the pulse—quick or slow
As the blood from the heyday retreats,—
But it cannot make gods of us—No!
It is well, icy Reason should thaw
In the warm blood of Mirth now and then,
The Gods for themselves have a law
Which they never intended for men.
The spirit is bound by the ties
Of its jailer, the Flesh—if I can
Not reach, as an angel, the skies,