For the mind is a spirit, and drinketh in ideas, as flame melteth into flame;
But for words it must pack them as on floors, cumbrous and perishable merchandize.
To be pained for a minute, to fear for an hour, to hope for a week—how long and weary!
But to remember fourscore years, is to look back upon a day.
An avenue seemeth to lengthen in the eyes of the wayfaring man,
But let him turn, those stationed elms crowd up within a yard;
Pace the lamp-lit streets of some sleeping city,
The multitude of cressets shall seem one, in the false picture of perspective;
Even so, in sweet treachery, dealeth the aged with himself,
He gazeth on the green hill-tops, while the marshes beneath are hidden;