20.
The rose is fragrant—yet if she divineth
Her own sweet fragrance, if the nightingale
Herself feels what round man’s soul softly twineth,
When echoes her sweet song across the vale,—
I cannot tell. Yet man is with vexation
Oft fill’d by truth. If nightingale and rose
The feeling only feign’d, the fabrication
Would still be useful, we may well suppose.