Life is a river, that hath caught its gleam
From age’s lingering years, and youth’s proud date,
From dull despair, and from the hopes, that seem
To form their longing, and to hide their hate;
From sickness, quailing underneath her pains;
And health, exulting in his pride of life;
From black melÁncholy, that turns her gains,
All to the theme of an unending strife;
From that fine frame of beauty and of bliss,
That, over-sensitive, will not distort
Nature’s delights to Hell’s triumphant hiss,
That, ’mid its sorrows, lives near joy’s high court:
From genius, freedom, beauty it assumes
As many forms, as hate’s dark hell consumes.