A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.
Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.