SEA SPRAY ^ SMOKE DRIFT 



The sophist is the despiser 

 Of all things under the sun ; 



Is nothing real but confusion ? 

 Is nothing certain but death ? 



Is nothing fair save illusion ? 



Is nothing good that has breath ? 



Some sprite, malignant and elfish, 



Seems present, whispering close, 

 *' All motives of life are selfish. 



All instincts of life are gross, 

 And the song that the poet fashions, 



And the love-bird's musical strain, 

 Are jumbles of animal passions, 



Refined by animal pain." 



The restless throbbings and burnings 

 That hope unsatisfied brings. 



The weary longings and yearnings 

 For the mystical better things, 



Are the sands on which is reflected 

 The pitiless moving lake. 



Where the wanderer falls dejected, 



By a thirst he never can slake. 

 104 



