Consolation

Mist clogs the sunshine. Smoky dwarf houses Hem me round everywhere; A vague dejection Weighs down my soul.

Yet, while I languish, Everywhere countless Prospects unroll themselves, And countless beings Pass countless moods.

Far hence, in Asia, On the smooth convent-roofs, On the gilt terraces, Of holy Lassa, Bright shines the sun.

Grey time-worn marbles Hold the pure Muses; In their cool gallery, By yellow Tiber, They still look fair.

Strange unloved uproar[A] Shrills round their portal; Yet not on Helicon Kept they more cloudless Their noble calm.

Through sun-proof alleys In a lone, sand-hemm'd City of Africa, A blind, led beggar, Age-bow'd, asks alms.

No bolder robber Erst abode ambush'd Deep in the sandy waste; No clearer eyesight Spied prey afar.

Saharan sand-winds Sear'd his keen eyeballs; Spent is the spoil he won. For him the present Holds only pain.

Two young, fair lovers, Where the warm June-wind, Fresh from the summer fields Plays fondly round them, Stand, tranced in joy.

With sweet, join'd voices, And with eyes brimming: "Ah," they cry, "Destiny, Prolong the present! Time, stand still here!"

The prompt stern Goddess Shakes her head, frowning; Time gives his hour-glass Its due reversal; Their hour is gone.

With weak indulgence Did the just Goddess Lengthen their happiness, She lengthen'd also Distress elsewhere.

The hour, whose happy Unalloy'd moments I would eternalise, Ten thousand mourners Well pleased see end.

The bleak, stern hour, Whose severe moments I would annihilate, Is pass'd by others In warmth, light, joy.

Time, so complain'd of, Who to no one man Shows partiality, Brings round to all men Some undimm'd hours.