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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
XXVII. ‘THE FLESH IS WEAK.’
What man can hear sweet sounds and dread to die?O for a music that might last for ever
Abounding from its sources like a river
Which through the dim lawns streams eternally!
Virtue might then uplift her crest on high,
Spurning those myriad bonds that fret and grieve her;
Then all the powers of Hell, rebuked, would quiver
Before the ardours of her awful eye.
Alas for Man with all his high desires,
And inward promptings fading day by day!
High-titled honour pants while it expires;
And clay-born glory turns again to clay.
Low instincts last: our great resolves pass by
Like winds whose loftiest pæan ends but in a sigh.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |