The vesper breeze, the Stygian sky, the sun dying
That pierces the multitude of clouds in gold, dun and grey,
No more will ye heark to the serene lute playing
In oden-paged Poesy for every night and day.
The city, the battlement, the daedal-corniced edifice
Embalm’d by memories of eld with mystic spice,
They stand, silently tranced, as, in a poetic sleep,
Beneath the grassy earth thou art lying deep.
Fall’n was yon Bronze Sparrow with thy glory afar,
As the ephemeral Man will vanish into the blue high—
But lo, midst fast-fading flowers, a mead shines: though one must die,
Vivacity is an e’ergreen Eternity cheer’d by the Daystar.
  In Life losses and gains, do not but on Fate depend.
  If one his joy maintaineth, he may his existence extend.