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.

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.

Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.

Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.

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.