But they are few, and all romance has flown,
And men can prophesy about the sun,
And lecture on his arrows--how, alone,
Through a waste void the atoms run,
How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,
And that no more 'mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head.
And men can prophesy about the sun,
And lecture on his arrows--how, alone,
Through a waste void the atoms run,
How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,
And that no more 'mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head.
Wilde - Poems
