Has it e’er crossed thy fancy to explore
The mystery of that old forgetful river
In which the Shade, permitted to renew
Its servitude to clay, went down to drink
Oblivion of itself and all it was;
A dread completion of the work of Death!
Now lend a patient hearing, and I’ll tell thee
—Thou wilt receive it as a wayward dream—
The course of this old river. Know it glides
Beneath thy steps, with lapse invisible,