Earth is less fragrant now, and heaven more sweet

Man looks at his own bliss, considers it, Weighs it with curious fingers; and 'tis gone.

God, by the earlier sceptic, was exiled; The later is more lenient grown and mild: He sanctions God, provided you agree To any other name for deity.

The Poet gathers fruit from every tree, Yea, grapes from thorns and figs from thistles he. Pluck'd by his hand, the basest weed that grows Towers to a lily, reddens to a rose.

April, April, Laugh thy girlish laughter; Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears!

And, though circuitous and obscure, The feet of Nemesis how sure!

Flower-fondled, clasp'd in ivy's close caress, It seems with Nature, yet apart.