As the old parable of wheat and tares;
What we all love is good touched up with evil—
Religion’s self must have a spice of devil.
Di. Let it be enough,
That in our needful mixture with the world,
On each new morning with the rising sun,
Our rising heart, fresh from the seas of sleep,
Scarce o’er the level lifts his purer orb
Ere lost and sullied with polluting smoke—
A noon-day coppery disk. Lo, scarce come forth,