‘Oh, can it be that this bright world
Was made for such dull joys[53] as ours?
Dwells there not aught in secret furled
‘Mid Nature’s holy bowers?[54]
Is it for naught that things gone by
Still hover o’er our wondering mind,
And dreamy feelings, dimly high,
A dwelling-place within us find?
No: there are things of higher mould,
Whose charmèd ways we heedless tread;