Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.

Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.

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

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.

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 fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.