And keeps the palace of the soul.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
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.
The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!