The Skull

O BOWL that held the hot imprisoned fire,  
Cup where the sacred essence used to burn—  
That fluent essence that shall ne’er return—  
Old home of Aspiration and Desire:  
What art thou now to honour and admire?          
A thing inconsequential one might spurn,  
Thou art not e’en the scattered ashes’ urn;—  
Husk of the spirit that shall not expire.  
 
Thou cage and shell of ancient busy Thought,  
Nurse-house of Soul, the domicile of him          
Long fled thy osseous walls that Nature wrought  
To please proud Time’s caprice and passing whim;  
’Twixt two eternities a moment caught,  
He rose from thee to join the seraphim.