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