The Hours, his little children, run
Lightly upon his errands ever;
By sure and swift relays is done
His will, disputed never;
The while these transient Hours infirm
Measure of mortal things the destined term.
Ah, me, the days! the heavy-weighted years,
Each with its Spring and Winter, dusk and dawn!
The centuries, with all their joys, and tears,
That came, and now—so utterly are gone!
Gone whither? Whither vanished so?
Does broad Orion, or does Hesper know?
There comes no answer. Are we dupes, indeed,—
Offspring of Time, by Time relentless slain,
Our purest aspirations dreamed in vain?
Ah, no: man's soul indignant doth disdain
Ignoble vassalage to such a creed,
Well-knowing it is free,—
Aye, free!—for present, past, and future blend,
The segments of a circle without end,
Losing themselves in one, unbourned eternity!
