Not power nor the casual hand of God br Shall keep us whole in our dissevering air, br It is a stink upon this pleasant sod br So foul, the hovering buzzard sees it fair; br I ask you will it end therefore tonight br And the moth tease again the windy flame, br Or spiders, eating their loves, hide in the night br At last, drowsy with self-devouring shame? br Call it the house of Atreus where we live- br Which one of us the Greek perplexed with crime br Questions the future: bring that lucid sieve br To strain the appointed particles of time! br Whether by Corinth or by Thebes we go br The way is brief, but the fixed doom, not so.