And this same state we won’t describe: we would
Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection:
But getting nigh grim Dante’s “obscure wood,”
That horrid equinox, that hateful section
Of human years—that half-way house—that rude
Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection
Life’s sad post-horses o’er the dreary frontier
Of Age, and looking back to Youth, give one tear;—