Chapter V

Not by your gradual sands, elusive Time, We measure your gray sea, that never rests; The bleeding hour-glasses in our breasts Mete with quick pangs the ebbing of our prime, And drip, like sudden rime In March, that melts to runnels from a pane The south breathes on -- oblivion of sublime Crystallizations, and the ruthless wane Of glittering stars, that scarce had range to climb.