Alembics turn to stranger things 
Strange things, but never while we live 
Shall magic turn this bronze that sings 
To singing water in a sieve.

The trumpets of Cæsar's guard 
Salute his rigorous bastions 
With ordered bruit; the bronze is hard 
Though there is silver in the bronze.

Our mutable tongue is like the sea, 
Curled wave and shattering thunder-fit; 
Dangle in strings of sand shall he 
Who smoothes the ripples out of it.