Alone is wisdom for the erring heart,
That infancy of soul, that stainless hour
When all the chaos of our spirit sleeps
In passionless repose,—how oft it woos
Our feelings back to purity and Heaven!
Alas! that in our solitude we soar
To perfect goodness, but in life descend
To dust again!—our aspirations quenched;
And all that purer moments wisely taught,
Denied, degraded, or forgot!—Thus glide