Excerpt from Antoinette: A Wreath of Autumn Leaves That men are but the forms of men That move within a world of dream. Sorrow a dream, a dream the strife Of soul, the high aspiring zeal; Fate smites her adamantine wheel To lightning, and we name it life. The soul of man, a sentient clod, A wandering voice upon the shore, That from the darkness unto God Cries through the ages evermore. What seems a part, 0 Lord, of Thee, Is but a flame, a smoking brand Swung to and fro within the hand Of blind, relentless destiny. I see the evening sunlight fall, I list the evening breezes play, And through yon dim aerial hall I see the cloud-wheels roll away. A moment from the voiceless deep, Shadows of mist that only seem, We watch the towers of Heaven gleam, Then, silence and eternal sleep. The bards of eld have told it me, So say a hundred sages now, Each with a light upon his brow That tells of immortality. Fire mixed with clay is in the mould. Into the nothing if I must, But let me die with them that hold The fire diviner than the dust. About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.