Hoard then the fringe that dangled on its train,
And spend their lives in hunting other trains
To match but forms and colors of the first.
It strikes me, friend, that all things truthful grow.
E’en love outgrows the fashion of its youth:—
The world whirls on apace; and different hues
Turn toward the noonday-sun. No dawn returns.
What form or color robes the infinite?—
Yet aught to worship matches that alone.
So look you less for worship, than for worth.