Who shall hoard up life As it were but a heap of golden discs? For it hath the lightest of light feet, This quarry of our chase: As it were Proteus, Flowing from shape to shape under our hands.... Who shall spread a net to entoil it Or snare it as a bird?
Ye play with life as with a gamester, Full of doubles and shifts, And ye laugh at each turn of the game, Your hearts hawking at a chance With a keen-edged zest. Ye know not what ye seek, Having it always.
Ye have stolen of my riches; But ye have given me of your dearth The last fragment of your broken bread And gone hungry yourselves: Despising the matter of our lives, The faults and incompleteness Of the crude earth, From which we are moulding, With cunning and nimble fingers, Images of desire.
Let us laugh and understand each other, For how could I blame you, my friends, When ye