Are left to spring; good seed hath there been sown
With no unsparing hand. Sometimes the shoot
Is choked with weeds, or withers on a stone;
But in a kindly soil it strikes its root,
And flourisheth, and bringeth forth abundant fruit.
Southey.
“How meanly dwells th’ immortal mind!
How vile these bodies are!
Why was a clod of earth designed
T’ enclose a heavenly star?