Yet still, in spite of truth,
In spite of hopes entombed,
That longing of our youth
Burns ever unconsumed.
Still hungrier for delight as delights grow more rare.
We pause; we hush our heart,
And thus address the gods:—
"The world hath failed to impart
The joy our youth forebodes,
Failed to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear.
"Changeful till now, we still
Looked on to something new;
Let us, with changeless will,
Henceforth look on to you,
To find with you the joy we in vain here require!"
Fools! That so often here
Happiness mocked our prayer,
I think, might make us fear
A like event elsewhere;
Make us not fly to dreams, but moderate desire.
And yet, for those who know
Themselves, who wisely take
Their way through life, and bow
To what they cannot break,
Why should I say that life need yield but moderate bliss?
Shall we, with temper spoiled,
Health sapped by living ill,
And judgment all embroiled
By sadness and self-will,—
Shall we judge what for man is not true bliss or is?
