A New Acquaintance of Thy Mind: Day 7

Most potent and most mighty! Who can bear

To touch thy laurel? With what feeble gleam

Shall lesser stars the paths of godhead dare?

And wilst thou e'en ignoble pride beteem?

Thou drivest through the circle of the signs,

And swift the seasons wreak their wonted ill;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

Yet liveth on unchangèd, by thy will.

Nor to thy wreath, nor to thy golden lyre,

We lay, in base presumption, mortal claim:

If to thy lofty heights we e'er aspire,

We seek no more than honour to thy name.

We seek thee, not for glory, not for pelf;

Thou, mocking, sayest: Mortal, know thyself.

Halfway through - and this has been the hardest of the lot so far! Who would have thought that, "And every fair from fair sometime declines," would prove so troublesome?