| |
|
From low to
high doth dissolution climb,
And sink from high to
low, along a scale
Of awful notes, whose concord
shall not fail:
A musical but melancholy chime,
Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,
Nor
avarice, nor over-anxious care.
Truth fails not; but
her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt
like frosty rime,
That in the morning whitened hill
and plain
And is no more; drop like the tower sublime
Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of
weeds, but could not even sustain
Some casual shout
that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch
of Time.
|
|
|
