16 
THE TALE OF ARCHAIS 
The lily lifts her pallid lips 
To the fierce passion of the sky, 
The bee from rose and violet sips 
Sweet honey, and the ivy clips 
The oak, the wanton streamlet slips 
Darkly away and shy, 
The green-leaved trees for passion swoon, 
When spring’s light kisses shake and sigh 
Amid the glances of the moon, 
While o’er their brethren fallen or hewn 
They wave in melancholy tune 
Their branches mournfully. 
 
 
Man’s days are dim, his deeds are dust, 
His span is but a little space, 
He lusts to live, he lives to lust, 
His soul is barren of love or trust, 
His heart is hopeless, seeing he must 
Perish, and leave no trace ; 
With impious rage he mocks the bounds 
Of earth, albeit so wholly base ; 
His ears are dead to subtle sounds, 
His eyes are blind, for Zeus confounds 
His vain irreverence, and astounds 
High Heaven with wrathful face.