Of Desolation, and to Ruin’s scythe
Decay submits not.
But where’er my steps
Shall wander, chiefly let me cull with care
Those images of genial beauty, oft 200
Too lovely to be pensive in themselves
But by reflection made so, which do best
And fitliest serve to crown with fragrant wreaths
Life’s cup when almost filled with years, like mine.
—How lovely robed in forenoon light and shade, 205