Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
What Youth deemed crystal, Age finds out was dew.
The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o’er the land, Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.
But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, to dry one’s eyes and laugh at a fall, and baffled, get up and begin again.
A minute’s success pays the failure of years.
Measure your mind’s height by the shade it casts.
Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
I count life just a stuff to try the soul’s strength on.
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!