How broken is the road, how cruelly Steep,
Alas, poor Man in sorrow needs essay I
He may not pause, he has no time to weep ;
Tears on his path are children of delay ;
And who can tell how far he has to roam.
Ere Fate relenting bids her servant home ?
The shadowy bridge of Time its ample span
Extends, unveiling hour by hour to view ;
And o'er it constantly the foot of man
Moves, in the passing Seasons* retinue ;
Yet would that foot one Step withdraw—Tis vain—
The mighty causey melts in cloud again.
May not the past return ? Ah, never more.
We whisper through the void, and none replies ;
Our sheaves are harvested and winnowed o'er;
Our Stubbles all are naked ; Autumn dies
And love of life. Yea, is not Love a dream,
A bubble adrift on Lethe's drowsy Stream ?