Alembics turn to stranger things Strange things, but never while we live Shall magic turn this bronze that sings To singing water in a sieve. The trumpets of Cæsar's guard Salute his rigorous bastions With ordered bruit; the bronze is hard Though there is silver in the bronze. Our mutable tongue is like the sea, Curled wave and shattering thunder-fit; Dangle in strings of sand shall he Who smoothes the ripples out of it.