Is not man's greatest heart's desire A bitter guerdon when 'tis won? A crown bequeathed by royal sire Is nought compared with dreams you've spun. Even as the rose in garden fair When plucked soon sheds its lovely bloom, And marred by hand beyond repair, Will swiftly lose its sweet perfume. No man of high or low estate Can hope from sorrow to be free: Kings have their heart-breaks just as great As commoners of low degree. Each sod of peat in smoke must burn. Each human blessing pain will bring. Each rose-bud has its prickly thorn. Who gathers honey dares the sting. What though yon man be rich in gold? Sadness is writ upon his face. The clearest well your eyes behold Has sand to foul it at the base. |