Brief as the creaming waves that break and run Back to the deep, as butterflies that flitter From flower to flower, as icicles that glitter Their keen defiance to the fatal sun; Brief as from tiny breast of cinnamon The bluebird's warble, or the swallow's twitter, This life of ours. Though it be sweet or bitter, 'Tis but a wing-beat and the flight is done. Yet on the lip the billow's windy froth Tastes of the sea; summer is in the call Of bird, in airy motion of the moth. There sparkles in that fragile crystal lance The miracle of light. 'Tis but a glance And we are gone; yet the least life holds all. |