LXXIV.

There are swift hours in life--strong, rushing hours, That do the work of tempests in their might! They shake down things that stood as rocks and towers Unto th’ undoubting mind; they pour in light Where it but startles--like a burst of day For which th’ uprooting of an oak makes way; They sweep the colouring mists from off our sight; They touch with fire thought’s graven page, the roll Stamp’d with past years--and lo! it shrivels as a scroll!