By Robert
Louis Stevenson
As when the hunt
by holt and field
Drives on
with horn and strife,
Hunger of hopeless things pursues
Our spirits throughout life.
The sea's roar fills us aching
full
Of objectless desire -
The sea's roar, and the white
moon-shine,
And the reddening of the fire.
Who talks to me of reason now?
It would be more delight
To have died in Cleopatra's
arms
Than be alive to-night.