On its sharp point peace bleeds, and hope expires.
There’s nothing here but what as nothing weighs;
The more our joy, the more we know it vain;
And by success are tutored to despair.
Nor is it only thus, but must be so.
Who knows not this, though grey, is still a child;
Loose then from earth the grasp of fond desire,
Weigh anchor, and some happier clime explore.
Young.
Earth, thou great footstool of our God