It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.
The soul of man is of the imperishable substance of the stars!
Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.
Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
What can I but enumerate old themes?
The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.