Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.

The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart; he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!

Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.

Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.

"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale; And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.