Betwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps;
Hath sown with cloudless passages the tale
Of grief, and eased us with a thousand sleeps.
Ah! not the nectarous poppy lovers use,
Not daily labour’s dull, Lethaean spring,
Oblivion in lost angels can infuse
Of the soil’d glory, and the trailing wing;
And though thou glean, what strenuous gleaners may.
In the throng’d fields where winning comes by strife;
And though the just sun gild, as mortals pray,