And forms to them angelic. Those who’ve past
That passion’s mysteries, recall with joy
The season of its sway, and dote to see
Young hearts just flitting o’er the selfsame net
By which they were entangled. Is not this
A picture of the truth, all ye who bear
The hearts of warm humanity? The smile
Was not diminished when the heir confessed
Such guess was near the mark. With steady voice,
And gravity maintained by effort firm,