Man looks at his own bliss, considers it

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.

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

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

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

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.

To keep in sight Perfection, and adore The vision, is the artist's best delight; His bitterest pang, that he can ne'er do more Than keep her long'd-for loveliness in sight.