To Triflers

Go, triflers with God's secret. Far, oh far
Be your thin monotone, your brows flower-crown'd,
Your backward-looking faces; for ye mar
The pregnant time with silly sooth of sound,
With flowers around the feverish temples bound,
And withering in the close air of the feast.
Take all the summer pleasures ye have found,
While Circe-charm'd ye turn to bird and beast.
Meantime I sit apart, a lonely wight
On this bare rock amid this fitful Sea,
And in the wind and rain I try to light
A little lamp that may a Beacon be,
Whereby poor ship-folk, driving thro' the night,
May gain the Ocean-course, and think of me!