O pure ebbing strain of shadows' firmament
Must vanquish in its tide of lust through time's content;
To earth their seal through heaven's charm is sent.
The morning's soulful cloak, the evening's lowly fear
A forlorn gust of ocean wind as messenger sent here—
O man, thou art nigh alone with life!
And cleave the unfold's perfect rite.
Ah ye vain slaves, art thou not covered sheep?
Through vent illusions, O what sense o'er this deep
E'er it pour from thyself? I, meek, seek
Thus alone thy clear vein, drenched with love.
Past, O sadly soothed as a vanished lily grove,
O thou art at spirits' rest and my clay uphold;
Seek not I as sand the earth which sieves its mold?