Probation

Full slow to part with her best gifts is Fate;The choicest fruitage comes not with the spring,But still for summer's mellowing touch must wait,—For storms and tears, which season'd excellence bring;And Love doth fix his joyfullest estateIn hearts that have been hushed 'neath Sorrow's brooding wing.

Youth sues to Fame: coldly she answers, "Toil!"He sighs for Nature's treasures: with reserveResponds the goddess, "Woo them from the soil."Then fervently he cries, "Thee will I serve,—Thee only, blissful Love!" With proud recoilThe heavenly boy replies, "To serve me well, deserve!"