When eyelids close at close of day.
’Tis but the impress mind receives,
That, sunn’d or sombre, never leaves.
Ah, if the past must always cope
With future joys for which we hope,
How vain the aims that make their quest
A life that merely shall be blest,
And slight earth’s meed of lowly sweets
For purple heights and golden streets!
Faith fails that merely waits below.