Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?
And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger; opens a new world When this, the present, palls.
Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.