On this hapless earth There ’s small sincerity of mirth, And laughter oft is but an art To drown the outcry of the heart. - Hartley Coleridge

True, thy fault is great, But we are many that will plead for thee; We and our sisters, dwellers in the streams That murmur blithely to the joyous mood, And dolefully to sadness. Not a nook In darkest woods but some of us are there, To watch the flowers, that else would die unseen.

She is not fair to outward view
As many maidens be;
Her loveliness I never knew
Until she smiled on me.
Oh! then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light.

Jove is not one half so merciless As thou art to thyself. But fare thee well; Our love is all as stubborn as thy pride, And swift as firm.