AS A SHADOW SUCH IS LIFE 



/Eolian harps in the pine 

 Ring with the song of the Fates; 

 Infant Bacchus in the vine, 

 For distant yet his chorus waits. 



Canst thou copy in verse one chime 

 Of the wood-bell's peal and cry, 

 Write in a book the morning's prime, 

 Or match with words that tender sky? 



Wonderful verse of the gods, 

 Of one import, of varied tone; 

 They chant the bliss of their abodes 

 To man imprisoned in his own. 



Ever the words of the gods resound ; 

 But the porches of man's ear 

 Seldom in this low life's round 

 Are unsealed, that he may hear. 



Wandering voices in the air 

 And murmurs in the wold 

 Speak what I cannot declare, 

 Yet cannot all withhold. 



