XLI

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XLI

He was beloved: or say at least,

He thought so, and existence charmed.

The credulous indeed are blest,

And he who, jealousy disarmed,

In sensual sweets his soul doth steep

As drunken tramps at nightfall sleep,

Or, parable more flattering,

As butterflies to blossoms cling.

But wretched who anticipates,

Whose brain no fond illusions daze,

Who every gesture, every phrase

In true interpretation hates:

Whose heart experience icy made

And yet oblivion forbade.