Their lives of old as restlessly they fly

Across the wildernesses of the sky.

When the wild hunt is done, shall they not rest

Their heads upon some swan-white maiden's breast,

And quaff their honeyed mead with godlike zest

In golden-gated Halls whence they may see

The earth and marvellous secrets of the Sea

Whereon the clouds will lie with grey wings furled,

[24]

And in whose depths, voluminously curled,

The serpent looms whose girth engirds the world?

Far, far above now in supernal power

Those spirits rule the sunshine and the shower!

How shall he win their favour; yea, how move

To pity the unpitying gods above,

The Dæmon rulers of life's fitful dream,

Who sway men's destinies, and still would seem

To treat them lightly as a game of chance,

The sport of whim and blindfold circumstance—

The irresponsible, capricious gods,

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