It only opens to an owner old.
How sacredly I guarded it for you!—
A holy place, though there, above the shrine,
The niche was empty. Ah, has earth seem’d rude?
Some reason was there; surely some there was.
We war with Providence, who war with life.
We seek to mould our own existence out;
But life, best made, is mainly for us made.
Each passing circumstance, a tool of heaven,
Grates by to smooth some edge of character,