Page:Astrophel and other poems (IA astrophelotherpo00swiniala).pdf/238



sea of the years that endure not Whose tide shall endure till we die And know what the seasons assure not, If death be or life be a lie, Sways hither the spirit and thither, A waif in the swing of the sea Whose wrecks are of memories that wither As leaves of a tree.

We hear not and hail not with greeting The sound of the wings of the years, The storm of the sound of them beating, That none till it pass from him hears: