The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home: Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.

Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.

But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.

The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

And keeps the palace of the soul.

That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.