That win their way into the heart by stealth;
Still, to the very going out of youth,
I too exclusively esteemed that love,
And sought that beauty, which, as Milton sings,
Hath terror in it. But thou didst soften down
This over-sternness; but for thee, dear Friend!
My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stood
In her original self too confident,
Retained too long a countenance severe;
A rock with torrents roaring, with the clouds