"The moanings of the homeless sea,"
and the sound of streams disintegrating and washing down the rocks to form
future land surfaces--"AEonian hills," the formations of whole aeons being
thus dissolved--and Love itself would languish under
"The sound of that forgetful shore,"
those new lands in which all things are obliterated and forgotten--knowing
that its own death was impending.
But the case is idly put. If such extinguishing Death were from the first
seen as it is when it comes, Love would either not exist; or else would be
a mere fellowship of coarse appetites, like those of the Satyr, who
crushes the grape for drunken revelry, and basks and battens in the woods.