This Horror Will Grow Mild, This Darkness

For No Falsehood Can Endure Touch Of Celestial Temper.

They, Looking Back, All The Eastern Side Beheld Of Paradise, So Late Their Happy Seat, Waved Over By That Flaming Brand, The Gate With Dreadful Faces Thronged And Fiery Arms: Some Natural Tears They Dropped, But Wiped Them Soon; The World Was All Before Them, Where To Choose Their Place Of Rest, And Providence Their Guide; They, Hand In Hand, With Wandering Steps And Slow, Through Eden Took Their Solitary Way.

And Every Shepherd Tells His Tale Under The Hawthorn In The Dale.

None Can Love Freedom Heartily, But Good Men; The Rest Love Not Freedom, But License.

Not To Know Me Argues Yourselves Unknown.