And this is life, and here existence beats
With too swift cadence for the mind, poor sloth;
And here, the inquisitive soul all dumbly seeks
The quick transplantings of an earlier growth;
And the vision of the world fades from before him,
And hopes, and fears grow blind, looking on light;
Man reaps the only harvest that can store him
For each emergence of the monstrous night:
O heaven! that this too dies, leaves us o’erweighed
By the gathered volume of defeated woe;
That grief should still be furthered, not delayed,
By joy that makes it heavier, though more slow:
Dark swells the wave, big with his comrade’s might,
Barks stemm’d the first, all own the latter’s right.