Of indolence.”
“The soul’s true Paradise
Is nothing earn’d,” he said. “It is a gift.
With Eden lost, insolvent made by sin,
Work, as I view it, is a loan from Hope
With which man pays the debt of Memory.
But if I reckon right, a pauper still,
He scarce can earn enough to pay them both.
And so our rest, I take it, is a gift
That crowns our strife, yet is not won by it;