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] 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 |