My First is followed by a bird:
My Second by believers
In magic art: my simple Third
Follows, too often, hopes absurd
And plausible deceivers.<br /><br />
My First to get at wisdom tries–
A failure melancholy!
My Second men revered as wise:
My Third from heights of wisdom flies
To depths of frantic folly.<br /><br />
My First is ageing day by day:
My Second’s age is ended:
My Third enjoys an age, they say,
That never seems to fade away,
Through centuries extended.<br /><br />
My Whole? I need a poet’s pen
To paint her myriad phases:
The monarch, and the slave, of men–
A mountain-summit, and a den
Of dark and deadly mazes–<br /><br />