Between the sweetest pleasing crest
And basest pits of pain,
There is no humble place for rest,
No rolling, gentle plain

To stand as enemy to time,
Intruding, raw, and rash,
And bolster up the blissful climb
Or buffer us from crash -

Only roads that wind and pitch
Sharply up or down,
That plunge into the swirling ditch
Or scrape the titan's crown;

No neutral place within our track:
Sweet fortune's glory or the fatal black.