Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
And weep the more, because I weep in vain.
We frolic while 'tis May.
Thought would destroy their paradise.
Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.