IF Life is but a hunger to attain,—
A longing for some unattested Good,
Whose secret has been whispered to the blood
Which bears upon its way each gathered gain,
And leaves our questionings in dumb disdain,
Then in fulfilment, life itself must cease,
Nearer to death related than to peace,
And as it slowly waxed, must slowly wane.

Dim consciousness, whose cradle was the ocean,
How high art thou uplifted since thy birth!
On the twin arches of man's feet, his motion
Is as a god's upon the subject earth;
Life hath fulfilled itself, played out its part:
Will refluent hunger turn to eat its heart?