Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.
And keeps the palace of the soul.
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.