Were now like donkey’s brayings in his sinking age.
What is there beautiful that goes not to decay?
Where is the roof that will not ruin be one day?
Unless it be the words of saint[274] from God; they’ll last
’Till echoes of his voice shall sound in judgment blast.180
He is the inner joy that glads our inner man;
The source from whom our beings rose when time began.
He is the amber draws the motes of thought and speech;
He gave the means to measure revelation’s reach.
Our minstrel in old age felt poverty’s sure pinch.