Becomes annihilate, or if not, a spot
Which the strain’d vision tires itself to find.
And even so fares it with the things of earth
Which seem most constant: there will come the cloud
That shall infold them up, and leave their place
A seat for Emptiness. Our narrow ken
Reaches too far, when all that we behold
Is but the havoc of wide-wasting Time,
Or what he soon shall spoil. His outspread wings
(Which bear him like an eagle o’er the earth)