Come What May, I Have Been Blest.

That Music In Itself, Whose Sounds Are Song, The Poetry Of Speech.

So Sweet The Blush Of Bashfulness, E'en Pity Scarce Can Wish It Less!

My Hair Is Grey, But Not With Years, Nor Grew It White In A Single Night, As Men's Have Grown From Sudden Fears.

The Sight Of Blood To Crowds Begets The Thirst Of More, As The First Wine-cup Leads To The Long Revel.

Reason Is So Unreasonable, That Few People Can Say They Are In Possession Of It.