Oh, so delicate, so gay,
So sweetly poised, so proud in show,
Shimmering in reflected day
Shaped to such a splendid show
Of smooth creation, swift to grow,
But, briefly dear,
Swift to float, break, shrink away,
The lovely bubbles children blow.

—And chides them thus:
Why take pleasure, why pursue
So spell-bound things that have no stay,
Things whose joyful shape and hue
Are nothing but a little dew
Blown up with wind, a little spray
Blent in a bowl with suds and slime,
Blown with a breath through clay
To live no time.
Choose rather some enduring good,
Some beauty fixed, some solid shape
Fit to be slowly understood;
Not with bright eyes and mouths agape,
But with order, admiration,
Duly to be comprehended,
Which will hold its worth and station
When the first warm flush is ended
Well approved, well based in fame.
Oh, is it better, chider, then
The jewel should still outlive the joy
Its beauty brings, that Fate should first
The pleasure, then the gem, destroy.
Should one love adamantine things
And wear down wonder day by day
On some unchangeable, ungay
Sublimity of marble wings.
Oh, let the emotion still survive
Its fragile cause, let nothing less
Temper the first gay loveliness
That laughs to see the light alive.
Beautiful bubbles, nothing worth,
Joy catches breath, and they are gone;
You, who despise their easy birth,
Forget that they have ever shone;
Live with your books, and still decry
All things that lack solidity—
But I'll blow bubbles till I die!