A PHIAL. This precious bubble of the antique world, As light as lifted foam, as frail as breath, Endured when empires died a desperate death, When heaven on earth, when tower on tower was hurled. Hues of a beetle's temporary wing Have grown on this in centuries of slime; Dials have told a rosary of time For every nuance of this feeble thing. Were it devised at first for costly balm, The distillation of a summer's fee, To sweeten some "Ah sweet, I dote on thee," No more, no more the heavy branches drip It mocks indeed, it is not wholly dumb, Drowse on, drowse on until I come again; JOHN GRAY. |