I cannot reach it; and my striving eye

Dazzles at it, as at eternity.

Were now that Chronicle alive,

Those white [102] designs which children drive [103] ,

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 twice [104] 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. [105]

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Footnotes:

[102] white, innocent

[103] drive, pursue

[104] See S. John; iii, 3

[105] Apparently, O that I knew how to carry childhood through later life