Lots

For is it our lot to grasp a great height,
and in sandals of gold on the stars streak,
like footprints on sand, long and sleek,
trails to paradise, the moon for a kite?

To view all our torments with mortal sight,
waiting for the ocean from skylines to peak,
and our eyesight bent down to the ground meek,
scurf sprinkling off ramparts by the swelled might?

Thus to have a queen shun with her eyes closed thrice
for I to cool fountains had vowed to lead,
and groan when the sands of time drip their price.

So does a young hand try to rein a steed
by passions overwhelmed many entice,
that remote can be seen across a mead.