FUTILITY

Fair Nature, has thy wisdom naught to say

To cheer thy child in a disconsolate hour?

Why do thy subtle hands betray their power

And but half-fashioned leave thy finer clay?

Upon what journeys doth thy fancy stray

That weeds in thy broad garden choke the flower,

And many a pilgrim harboured in thy bower

A stranger came, a stranger went away?

Ah, Mother, little can the soul avail

Unchristened at some font of ancient love.

What boots the vision if the meaning fail,

When all the marvels of the skies above

March to the passions they are mirrors of?

If the heart pine, the very stars will pale.