PolyArchive

As in the midst of battle there is room

For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth;

As gossips whisper of a trinket’s worth

Spied by the death-bed’s flickering candle-gloom;

As in the crevices of Caesar’s tomb

The sweet herbs flourish on a little earth:

So in this great disaster of our birth

We can be happy, and forget our doom.

For morning, with a ray of tenderest joy

Gilding the iron heaven, hides the truth,

And evening gently woos us to employ

Our grief in idle catches. Such is youth;

Till from that summer’s trance we wake, to find

Despair before us, vanity behind.