From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer's day; and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.
Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.
Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul And lap it in Elysium.
Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.
Heaven open'd wide Her ever during gates, harmonious sound, On golden hinges moving.
No worthy enterprise can be done by us without continual plodding and wearisomeness to our faint and sensitive abilities.