As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
The child is the father of man.
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
"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?