Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.

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

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.

For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.

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

And keeps the palace of the soul.

Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.