Tale of Archais

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.