All hopes on one uncertain die to throw;
How vain is man's pursuit, with passion blind,
To follow that which leaves us still behind!
Go! clasp the shadow, make it all thine own,
Place on the flying breeze thine airy throne;
Weave the thin sunbeams of the morning sky;
Catch the light April clouds before they fly;
Chase the bright sun unto the fading west,
And wake him early from his golden rest;
Seeking th' impossible, let life be past,