The dense hard passage is blind and stifled, 

 That crawls by a track none turn to climb 

 To the strait waste place that the years have 



rifled 

 Of all but the thorns that are touched not of 



Time; 

 The thorns he spares when the rose is taken ; 



The rocks are left when he wastes the plain ; 

 The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, 

 These remain. 



SWINBURNE. 



