POEMS.
11
Quite fool enough the world to show
Unvarnished each defect;
Just wise enough my faults to know,
But not those faults correct;
With keen regret on follies past
I dwell, and when my heart at last
With bitter grief flows o'er,
To mark each weakness still awake,
What sense is mine, but serves to make
Me feel I should have more.
Unvarnished each defect;
Just wise enough my faults to know,
But not those faults correct;
With keen regret on follies past
I dwell, and when my heart at last
With bitter grief flows o'er,
To mark each weakness still awake,
What sense is mine, but serves to make
Me feel I should have more.
What though my soul, warm, grateful, kind,
Still sighs for social joys;
Truth with suspicion taints my mind,
And all my bliss destroys.
In vain may Love and Friendship tell,
Spite of his whims and faults, how well
They prize the wayward elf:
Nor Love nor Friendship seem sincere;
For can I be to others dear,
Thus hateful to myself?
Still sighs for social joys;
Truth with suspicion taints my mind,
And all my bliss destroys.
In vain may Love and Friendship tell,
Spite of his whims and faults, how well
They prize the wayward elf:
Nor Love nor Friendship seem sincere;
For can I be to others dear,
Thus hateful to myself?
