All fly—yet who is misanthrope?—
   The actual men and things that pass
   Jostling, to wither as the grass
   So soon: and (be it heaven’s hope,
   Or poetry’s kaleidoscope,
   Or love or wine, at feast, at mass)
   Each owns a paradise of glass
   Where never a yearning heliotrope
   Pursues the sun’s ascent or slope;
   For the sun dreams there, and no time is or was.
 
   Like fauns embossed in our domain,
   We look abroad, and our calm eyes
   Mark how the goatish gods of pain
   Revel; and if by grim surprise
   They break into our paradise,
   Patient we build its beauty up again.

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