Fire; and not all the fountains of the sea

Have waves enough to quench it, nor on earth

Is fuel enough to feed,

While day sows night and night sows day for seed.

We were not marked for sorrow, thou nor I,

For joy nor sorrow, sister, were we made,

To take delight and grief to live and die,

Assuaged by pleasures or by pains affrayed

That melt men's hearts and alter; we retain

A memory mastering pleasure and all pain,

A spirit within the sense of ear and eye,

A soul behind the soul, that seeks and sings

And makes our life move only with its wings

And feed but from its lips, that in return

Feed of our hearts wherein the old fires that burn

Have strength not to consume

Nor glory enough to exalt us past our doom.

Ah, ah, the doom (thou knowest whence rang that wail)

Of the shrill nightingale!

[Pg 316]

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