That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.
What's the earth With all its art, verse, music, worth — Compared with love, found, gained, and kept?
Since there my past life lies, why alter it?
Truth is truth howe'er it strike.
What? Was man made a wheel-work to wind up, And be discharged, and straight wound up anew? No! grown, his growth lasts; taught, he ne'er forgets: May learn a thousand things, not twice the same.
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!