When I was born,From all the seas of strength Fate filled a chalice,Saying, This be thy portion, child; this chalice,Less than a lily's, thou shalt daily drawFrom my great arteries; nor less, nor more.All substances the cunning chemist TimeMelts down into that liquor of my life,Friends, foes, joys, fortunes, beauty, and disgust,And whether I am angry or content,Indebted or insulted, loved or hurt,All he distils into sidereal wine,And brims my little cup; heedless, alas!Of all he sheds how little it will hold,How much runs over on the desert sands.If a new muse draw me with splendid ray,And I uplift myself into her heaven,The needs of the first sight absorb my blood,And all the following hours of the dayDrag a ridiculous age.To-day, when friends approach, and every hourBrings book or starbright scroll of genius,The tiny cup will hold not a bead more,And all the costly liquor runs to waste,Nor gives the jealous time one diamond dropSo to be husbanded for poorer days.Why need I volumes, if one word suffice?Why need I galleries, when a pupil's draughtAfter the master's sketch, fills and o'erfillsMy apprehension? Why should I roam,Who cannot circumnavigate the seaOf thoughts and things at home, but still adjournThe nearest matters to another moon?Why see new menWho have not understood the old?