Doth mete and parcel out the light and dark,
Strange, varicolored, like a wanderer’s dream;—
And He that made the man hath made his work.
And in the bark of life hath given the oar
At which to tug and toil until the death;
Nor yet all toil; for oft the summer sea
Ripples on bloomy shores, whence balmy winds
Bring a rich, spicy life to make one glad.
We thrid wild mazes not without a clue—
We sink again to soar as eagles do—