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

138 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.