Praise is deeper than the lips
What Youth deemed crystal, Age finds out was dew.
Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.
'Tis only when they spring to Heaven that angels reveal themselves to you.
The only fault's with time; All men become good creatures: but so slow!
Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her- Next time, herself!-not the trouble behind her