Unless, indeed, to prove that I am glad,
Albeit fast wedded to a thought so sad
I scarce can deem that my despair will die,
Or that the sun, careering up the sky,
Will warm again a world that seem'd so mad.
II.
And yet, who knows? The world is, to the mind,
Much as we make it; and the things we tend
Wear, for the nonce, the liveries that we lend.
And some such things are fair, though ill-defined,