Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/171

Or sepulchre transparent. As the fly
Looks in its case a jewel from the sky,
So should the dew-drop like a star shed calm
When in my verse the treasure I embalm.

But great good fortune comes not every day;
Horace and Petrarch each in his own way
Were favoured oft. Ah, e'en in petty things
The perfect and the absolute are for kings
Of thought,—not open here below
To all, but only those on whom bestow
The Muses, gifts. This ideal model small
That in our spirits floats scarce seen at all,
This grain of dust, this sun-kissed glittering mote,
Of art, this intangible asymptote,
Is hard to seize and hard to realise,
Though our hearts break in trying—off it flies!
We weep not all, alas! the tears sublime
That crystallise and change to pearls by time.