There may be
always a time of innocence.
There is never
a place. Or if there is no time,
If it is not a
thing of time, nor of place.
Existing in
the idea of it, alone,
In the sense
against calamity, it is not
Less real. For
the oldest and coldest philosopher,
There is or
may be a time of innocence
As pure
principle. Its nature is its end,
That it should
be, and yet not be, a thing
That pinches
the pity of the pitiful man,
Like a book at
evening beautiful but untrue,
Like a book on
rising beautiful and true.