XXXIV.
             
        My own dim life should teach me this,
            That life shall live for evermore,
            Else earth is darkness at the core,
        And dust and ashes all that is;

        This round of green, this orb of flame,
            Fantastic beauty; such as lurks
            In some wild Poet, when he works
        Without a conscience or an aim.

        What then were God to such as I?
            ’Twere hardly worth my while to choose
            Of things all mortal, or to use
        A little patience ere I die;

        ’Twere best at once to sink to peace,
            Like birds the charming serpent draws,
            To drop head-foremost in the jaws
        Of vacant darkness and to cease.