In his unerring scales and weighed?
How may we test their sense or worth,—
These poor glib phrases, born of earth,
False accents of a long exile,—
Or know the angels do not smile,
Holding out truth’s immortal gauge,
To hear us prate of youth and age?
She seemed so young, so young to die!
So needed here by every one,
Nor there; for heaven has need of none.