No lovely thing on earth can picture all their beauty.
They be chance pearls, flung among the rocks by the sullen waters of Oblivion,
Which Diligence loveth to gather, and hang around the neck of Memory;
They be white-winged seeds of happiness, wafted from the islands of the blessed,
Which Thought carefully tendeth, in the kindly garden of the heart;
They be sproutings of an harvest for eternity, bursting through the tilth of time,
Green promise of the golden wheat, that yieldeth angels' food;
They be drops of the crystal dew, which the wings of seraphs scatter,
When on some brighter sabbath, their plumes quiver most with delight:
Such, and so precious, are the words which the lips of Wisdom utter.