Or empty bubbles on a river, 

 The striving world passed by. 

 What seemed to others worth the winning 

 Thro' strong desire or hate of sinning 

 Brought him no energy. 

 The thunder muttering on the hills, 

 The song of birds, the babbling rills, 

 The painted flowers and stars, 

 This pageantry of earth did seem 

 The parcel of a timeless dream. 

 He lived beyond the bars. 

 It was to him a vague mirage 

 Or memory of a storied page 

 With only that appeal; 

 But oftentimes a sound or sight 

 Would bring to him his own delight 

 More subtle than the real. 

 And with his sense of entity 

 Half lost, he raised a vacant eye 

 Into the empyrean. 

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