That homeless wanders for the thing it loves:

The fancies of man’s waking are so fraught

With folly, or philosophy that roves

It knows not where, that ’tis no marvel sleep

Should pass its coinage as the current dross:

Could man contain his dreamings in their keep,

How great a gain should balance little loss:

The world is wearied, to know why it plods

The equal tenour of a various way;

But half attends, smiles sometimes, sometimes nods

O’er its dissection, while its head is grey.

It clears the rubble from its own high-road,

And asks but truth, nor cares to increase its load.

{45}

{45}

XLV.

Life is a river, that hath caught its gleam

From age’s lingering years, and youth’s proud date,

From dull despair, and from the hopes, that seem

To form their longing, and to hide their hate;

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