XLVI

Today the lady of my heart was born
Into this checkered world of joy and pain;
And if my eyes are cloudy, and will rain
A few sad drops to mar her shining morn,
'Tis not because my life, else quite forlorn,
Is dark and sullen to the inmost grain,
And churl-like holds its chiefest blessing vain,
And treats her beauty with ungrateful scorn.
Oh! no; I prize my fortune at its height;
I kiss the easy fetters of my thrall;
Over and over, in the view of all.
But, ah! beshrew me, in her purer sight,
Do I not seem a shadow of the night,
Presaging ruin wheresoe'er I fall?