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APOSTROPHE.
Time may give way, his weary wings
May drop in middle flight;
The sun may faint, and earth, that springs
As fondly in his light,
As to a mother bending o'er
Her nursling, waked from timely sleep,
May lie, as it hath lain before;
And darkness yet once more
May be upon the surface of the deep.
What worth the cave, within whose chambers coiling
Like a gorged dragon lies, his head thrust forth,
The clammy Dark, when all the miners' toiling
Is o'er, and all the gold has long been spent in mirth?
—As little worth as Thou,
Earth, that hummest now
So proudly with thy myriad souls, when they
Have had their trial here and all are called away.
Then shall the empty planet roll
As idly on the immeasurable space
