And there be, who, haters of religion, toil to prove it priestcraft,
Owning none other aim nor hope, but to confound the good:
Woe unto them! for their works shall live; yea, to their utter condemnation:
Woe! for their own handwriting shall testify against them for ever.
Pure is the happiness of Authorship: I glorify mine office;
Albeit lightly having sipped the cup of its lower pleasures.
For it is to feel with a father's heart, when he yearneth on the child of his affections;
To rejoice in a man's own miniature world, gladdened by its rare arrangement.
The poem, is it not a fabric of mind? we love what we create:
That choice and musical order,—how pleasant is the toil of composition!