Mist clogs the sunshine.

Smoky dwarf

Hem me round everywhere;

A vague

Weighs down my soul.

Yet, while I languish,


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.


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.

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