Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/290



dead, we cease to be; if total gloom Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom, Whose sound and motion not alone declare, But are their whole of being! If the Breath Be Life itself, and not its Task and Tent, If ev'n a soul like Milton's can know death; O Man! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant, Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes, Surplus of nature's dread activity, Which, as she gaz'd on some nigh-finish'd vase, Retreating slow, with meditative pause, She form'd with restless hands unconsciously. Blank accident! nothing's anomaly! If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy Hopes thy Fears, The counter- weights!—Thy Laughter and thy Tears Mean but themselves, each fittest to create