Who beckons the green ivy up Its solitary tower of stone? What spirit lures the bindweed's cup Unfaltering on; Calls even the starry lichen to climb By agelong inches endless Time? Who bids the hollyhock uplift Her rod of fast-sealed buds on high; Fling wide her petals -- silent, swift, Lovely to the sky? Since as she kindled, so she will fade, Flower above flower in squalor laid. Ever the heavy billow rears All its sea-length in green, hushed wall; But totters as the shore it nears, Foams to its fall; Where was its mark? on what vain quest Rose that great water from its rest?. . . So creeps ambition on; so climb Man's vaunting thoughts. He, set on high, Forgets his birth, small space, brief time, That he shall die; Dreams blindly in his stagnant air; Consumes his strength; strips himself bare; Rejects delight, ease, pleasure, hope; Seeking in vain, but seeking yet, Past earthly promise, earthly scope, On one aim set: As if, like Chaucer's child, he thought All but @3'O Alma!'@1 nought. |