He Who Would Search For

Bankrupt Of Life, Yet Prodigal Of Ease.

Fame Then Was Cheap, And The First Comer Sped; And They Have Kept It Since By Being Dead.

Calms Appear, When Storms Are Past; Love Will Have His Hour At Last: Nature Is My Kindly Care; Mars Destroys, And I Repair; Take Me, Take Me, While You May, Venus Comes Not Ev'ry Day.

What Judgment I Had Increases Rather Than Diminishes; And Thoughts, Such As They Are, Come Crowding In So Fast Upon Me, That My Only Difficulty Is To Choose Or Reject; To Run Them Into Verse Or To Give Them The Other Harmony Of Prose.

But How Can Finite Grasp Infinity?