Is substance; the reverse is Folly’s creed:
How solid all, where change shall be no more!
This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, 123
The twilight of our day, the vestibule;
Life’s theatre as yet is shut, and death,
Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar,
This gross impediment of clay remove,
And make us embryos of existence free.
From real life, but little more remote
Is he, not yet a candidate for light, 130