To My Tortoise Chronos

Thou vague dumb crawler with the groping head
As listless to the sun as to the showers,
Thou very image of the wingless Hours
Now creeping past me with their feet of lead :
For thee and me the same small garden bed
Is the whole world : the same half life is ours ;
And year by year, as Fate restricts my powers,
I grow more like thee, and the soul grows dead.
No, Tortoise : from thy like in days of old
Was made the living lyre ; and mighty strings
Spanned thy green shell with pure vibrating gold.
The notes soared up, on strong but trembling wings,
Through ether's lower zones ; then, growing bold,
Spurned earth for ever and its wingless things.