CXIV.

I knew a man, whose heart could find no home, Whose very fulness but provoked his dearth; He was too proud to show how he could moan, Most thought him cold, few understood his worth; But closeted feelings bring forth bitter fruit; And solitude preys on love, making it mad; Hearts throb more genial, even to a worthless suit, Than when experience answers, all is sad: He hath grasp’d sometimes at the empty air, Parcelling it out to visions of his mind; Deifying some idea, he’s call’d it fair; Alas! he could not long continue blind: Who’s separate from his fellows may live great; Yet fate decrees he’ll curse his empty state.