Before him, shiningly perfect, the laurel-crown'd issue of years:

Is heaven offended? for lightning behold from its bosom escape,

And those are mocking fragments that made the harmonious shape!

He cannot love the ruins, till, feeling that ruins alone

Are left, he loves them threefold. So passed the old grandfather's

John's text for a sermon on Slaughter he heard, and he did not

All rigid as April snowdrifts, he stood, hard and feeble; his chest

Just showing the swell of the fire as it melted him. Smiting a rib,

(Editor：ability)