OH, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind; And if that one should be False, unkind, or found too late, What can we do but sigh at fate, And sing Wo's me -- Wo's me! Love's a boundless burning waste, Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste, And still more seldom flee Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings; Yet somehow Love a something brings That's sweet -- even when we sigh "Wo's me!" |