The fictive tear he holds in reverence,
And studies heady griefs that wash the cheek;
It is a dim dominion he must seek,
To gain some raiment for his impotence.
Sorrows are numbered, the sighs have their strings,
And barren smiles are trained for tragedy;
He ties up parcels of mock gaiety,
And labels them with many worshippings.
Grapes in the grass, and every day a waste
At scattered sources of lost loveliness,
With drunkenness to drain the ruined seats.
He knows his gems are turned to glassy paste —
But he thanks God aloof from all distress,
For he knows sewers run beneath the city streets.