Heavenly Archer, Bend Thy Bow; Now The Flame Of Life Burns Low, Youth Is Gone; I, Too, Would Go. Even Fortune Leads To This: Harsh Or Kind, At Last She Is Murderess Of All Ecstasies. Yet The Spirit, Dark, Alone, Bound In Sense, Still Hearkens On For Tidings Of A Bliss Foregone. Sleep Is Well For Dreamless Head, At No Breath Astonish'D, From The Gardens Of The Dead. I The Immortal Harps Hear Ring, By Babylon'S River Languishing. Heavenly Archer, Loose Thy String.