3

O youth’s young cloudlet, O freshness free,

With heart so light on the winds to fly

Or glisten in spray up-scatter’d,—I

Am sad as the full surgings of the sea;

I gave thee birth, thou shalt return to me.

Thy heart is light as the empty wind

Of barren purposeless change,—but I

Am the thought-burden’d slow-searching mind:

I am the agony to form & find;—

The fluxing travail of eternity.