16 
AMBERGRIS 
What boots the weariness of olden time 
Now, when old age, a tempest-fury, lowers ? 
 
Up to high God beyond the weary land 
The days drift mournfully ;  His hoary hand 
Gathers them.  Is it so ?  My Foolish rime 
Dreams they are links upon an endless band. 
 
The planets draw in endless orbits round 
The sun ;  itself revolves in the profound 
Black wells of space ;  the comet’s mystic track 
By the strong rule of a closed curve is bound. 
 
Why not with time ?  To-morrow we may see 
The circle ended—if to-morrow be— 
And gaze on chaos, and a week bring back 
Adam and Even beneath the apple tree. 
 
Or, like the comet, the wild race may end 
Out into darkness, and our circle bend 
Round to all glory, in a sudden sweep, 
And speed triumphant with the sun to friend. 
 
Love will not leave my home.  She knows my tears, 
My angers and caprices ;  still my ears 
Listen to singing voices, till I weep 
Once more, less sadly, and set hounds on fears. 
 
She will not leave me comfortless.  And why ? 
Through the dimmed glory of my clouded eye 
She catches one sharp glint of love for her ; 
She will not leave me ever till I die :— 
 
Nay, though I die !  Beyond the distant gloom 
Heaven springs, a fountain, out of Change’s womb ! 
Time would all men within the grave inter :— 
For Time himself shall no god find a tomb ?