LIFE
The smitten rock that gushes,The trampled steel that springs:A cheek is always redderJust where the hectic stings!
Mirth is the mail of anguish,In which it caution arm,Lest anybody spy the bloodAnd “You’re hurt” exclaim!
IX
THE heart asks pleasure first,And then, excuse from pain;And then, those little anodynesThat deaden suffering;
And then, to go to sleep;And then, if it should beThe will of its Inquisitor,The liberty to die.
X
A PRECIOUS, mouldering pleasure ’tisTo meet an antique book,In just the dress his century wore;A privilege, I think,
[7]
