THE STRIKING HOURS
Reading edition
My brother, can the heart of ocean say When winds may woo her bosom; when the ships, Or sudden galleon of an azure day, Shall fling her foam to rainbows? Can eclipse Hide up their silver when the full moons will? Are the cloud-cisterns of the latter rain At beck of every, summer-starven rill? Life cannot call the time; nor man may feign That he shall haply choose when he would have: To will the striking hours he is not free, That chime between his cradle and his grave, Or speed, or slow the hands of destiny. A bunch of stars upon the vine of heaven Grows ripe and falls and passes when complete; The galaxy of grapes to your mouth given, Bursting their bloomy chalices, are sweet One little moment; for they will not stay Your pleasure and their consummation hold While you misdoubt and linger and delay Before their cups of purple and of gold. When to a feast the gods would make you free At their own time, or never, shall it be.