As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. GoldsmithThe Deserted Village. L. 189.
Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us, The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, We bargain for the graves we lie in; At the devils booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we buy with a whole souls tasking, Tis heaven alone that is given away, Tis only God may be had for the asking, No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer. LowellVision of Sir Launfal. Prelude to Pt. I.