Mist clogs the sunshine.
Smoky dwarf
Hem me round everywhere;
A vague
Weighs down my soul.
Yet, while I languish,
Everywhere
Prospects unroll themselves,
And countless
Pass countless moods.
Far hence, in Asia,
On the smooth convent-roofs,
On the gilt terraces,
Of holy Lassa,
Bright shines the sun.
Grey time-worn
Hold the pure Muses;
In their cool gallery,
By yellow Tiber,
They still look fair.
Strange unloved
Shrills round their portal;
Yet not on
Kept they more
Their noble calm.
Through sun-proof
In a lone,
City of Africa,
A blind, led beggar,
Age-bow'd, asks alms.
No bolder
Erst abode
Deep in the sandy waste;
No clearer
Spied prey afar.
Saharan
Sear'd his keen eyeballs;
Spent is the spoil he won.
For him the
Holds only pain.
Two young, fair lovers,
Where the warm June-wind,
Fresh from the summer
Plays fondly round them,
Stand, tranced in joy.
With sweet, join'd voices,
And with eyes brimming:"Ah," they cry, "Destiny,
Prolong the present!
Time, stand still here!"The prompt stern
Shakes her head, frowning;
Time gives his
Its due reversal;
Their hour is gone.
With weak
Did the just
Lengthen their happiness,
She lengthen'd
Distress elsewhere.
The hour, whose
Unalloy'd momentsI would eternalise,
Ten thousand
Well pleased see end.
The bleak, stern hour,
Whose severe momentsI would annihilate,
Is pass'd by
In warmth, light, joy.
Time, so complain'd of,
Who to no one
Shows partiality,
Brings round to all
Some undimm'd hours.
