I cannot reach it; and my striving eye

Dazzles at it, as at eternity.

Were now that Chronicle alive,

Those white¹⁰²¹⁰²white, innocent designs which children drive¹⁰³¹⁰³drive, pursue,

And the thoughts of each harmless hour,

With their content, too, in my power,

Quickly would I make my path even,

And by mere playing go to Heaven.

Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span

Where weeping Virtue parts with man;

Where love without lust dwells, and bends

What way we please without self-ends.

An age of mysteries! which he

Must live twice¹⁰⁴¹⁰⁴See S. John; iii, 3 that would God's face see;

Which angels guard, and with it play;--

Angels! which foul men drive away.

How do I study now, and scan

Thee more than e'er I studied man,

And only see through a long night

Thy edges and Thy bordering light!

O for Thy centre and mid-day!

For sure that is the narrow way.¹⁰⁵¹⁰⁵Apparently, O that I knew how to carry childhood through later life