Hills that were fairer, ere their paths were won,
Than the long slopes of fountained Helicon,
Are marred by poisonous weeds and flinty stone;
And forms that seemed, against the distant skies,
Winging their snowy way to Paradise,
Are birds unclean, whose wings are like a breath
From some great charnel-house in lands of death.
And shifting sands beneath our feet are spread,
And pitfalls numberless beset our way,
Where noisome reptiles fill us with dismay;