When I consider Life and its few years—A wisp of fog betwixt us and the sun;
A call to battle, and the battle
Ere the last echo dies within our ears;
A rose choked in the grass; an hour of fears;
The gusts that past a darkening shore do beat;
The burst of music down an unlistening street,—I wonder at the idleness of tears.
Ye old, old dead, and ye of yesternight,
Chieftains, and bards, and keepers of the sheep,
By every cup of sorrow that you had,
Loose me from tears, and make me see
How each hath back what once he stayed to weep:
Homer his sight,
David his little lad!
