God Is The Perfect Poet, Who In

The Only Fault's With Time; All Men Become Good Creatures: But So Slow!

The Sea Heaves Up, Hangs Loaded O'er The Land, Breaks There, And Buries Its Tumultuous Strength.

A Whole I Planned, Youth Shows But Half; Trust God: See All, Nor Be Afraid!

In This World, Who Can Do A Thing, Will Not; And Who Would Do It, Cannot, I Perceive: Yet The Will's Somewhat — Somewhat, Too, The Power — And Thus We Half-men Struggle.

Lost, Lost! One Moment Knelled The Woe Of Years.