Though Rome's gross yoke Drops off, no more to be endured, Her teaching is not so obscured By errors and perversities, That no truth shines athwart the lies.
My sun sets to rise again.
Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell!
Silence 'tis awe decrees.
Therefore I summon age / To grant youth's heritage.
All poetry is putting the infinite within the finite.