O flock that liest at rest, O blessèd thou That knowest not thy fate, however hard, How utterly I envy thee! Not merely that thou goest almost free Of all this weary pain,-- That every misery and every toil And every fear thou straightway dost forget,-- But most because thou knowest not ennui When on the grass thou liest in the shade. I see thee tranquil and content, And great part of thy years Untroubled by ennui thou passest thus. I likewise in the shadow, on the grass. Lie, and a dull disgust beclouds My soul, and I am goaded with a spur, So that, reposing, I am farthest still From finding peace or place. And yet I want for naught, And have not had till now a cause for tears. What is thy bliss, how much, I cannot tell; but thou art fortunate. * * * * * Or, it may be, my thought Errs, running thus to others' destiny; May be, to everything, Wherever born, in cradle or in fold, That day is terrible when it was born. It is the same note, the same voice; the theme does not change, but perhaps it is deepened in this ode: ON THE LIKENESS OP A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN CARVEN UPON HER TOMB. Such wast thou: now under earth A skeleton and dust. O'er dust and bones Immovably and vainly set, and mute, Looking upon the flight of centuries, Sole keeper of memory And of regret is this fair counterfeit Of loveliness now vanished. That sweet look, Which made men tremble when it fell on them, As now it falls on me; that lip, which once, Like some full vase of sweets, Ran over with delight; that fair neck, clasped By longing, and that soft and amorous hand, Which often did impart An icy thrill unto the hand it touched; That breast, which visibly Blanched with its beauty him who looked on it-- All these things were, and now Dust art thou, filth, a fell And hideous sight hidden beneath a stone. Thus fate hath wrought its will Upon the semblance that to us did seem Heaven's vividest image! Eternal mystery Of mortal being! To-day the ineffable Fountain of thoughts and feelings vast and high, Beauty reigns sovereign, and seems Like splendor thrown afar From some immortal essence on these sands, To give our mortal state A sign and hope secure of destinies Higher than human, and of fortunate realms, And golden worlds unknown. To-morrow, at a touch, Loathsome to see, abominable, abject, Becomes the thing that was All but angelical before; And from men's memories All that its loveliness Inspired forever faults and fades away.