More worthy was the pagan ignorance
Of all save what a world of sense discloses:
That found his soul above the starry dance,
This in a sweet but fading heaven of roses.
But us no heaven of saint nor flower delights;
When sense is edged and blood of youth is hot
We spend our days for things which profit not,
And in the last cold days and lonely nights
Wherewith our little span of living closes,
We set our heart on things.