Hopes turn to gods, and fears take demon forms;

Man must be somewhere stayed in this strange strife;

He feels himself so weak against its storms.

Dim eyes he strains into futurity;

Weak arms, extending, gropes to find his road;

His fingers clutch at what seems Purity;

Thank Heaven! he sees not all their ghastly load.

And, whether all footpaths lead to the same place,

Or the weed hope blossoms into a flower;

Or whether all struggle in a phantom race,

And blow the bubbles of fame, love and power;

All this he knows not, somewhere he would rest,

By pleasure, or content, aye so ’twere best.

{65}

{65}

LXV.

Life’s but a straw, that’s piped upon by winds,

Fluttering to different tunes at every blast;

But he is strong who conquers what he finds,

Dragging it onward, as the unyielding mast

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