YOU comfort me as one that, knowing Fate, Would paint her visage kinder than you deem; You say, my only bliss that is no dream She clouds, but makes not wholly desolate. Ah, Friend! your heart speaks words of little weight To veil that sadder knowledge, learned in song, And 'gainst your solace Grief has made me strong: The Gods are jealous of our low estate; They give not Fame to Love, nor Love to Fame; Power cannot taste the joy the humbler share, Nor holy Beauty breathe in Luxury's air, And all in darkness Genius feeds his flame. We build and build, poor fools! and all the while Some Demon works unseen, and saps the pile. |