If it were genius did the digging-job,
Logic would speedily sift its product smooth
And leave the crude truths bare for poetry;
But I 'm no poet, and am stiff i' the back.
What one spread fails to bring, another may.
In goes the shovel and out comes scoop—as here!
I live to please myself. I recognize
Power passing mine, immeasurable, God—
Above me, whom he made, as heaven beyond
Earth—to use figures which assist our sense.