I stood erect, I proudly lifted up
The Sword of Song, the bow that trembled now,
As if for joy, my grief to disallow.—
Are there not some who, in the choicest cup,
Imbibe despair, and famish as they sup,
Sear'd by a solace that was like a vow?
VII.
Are there not some who weep, and cannot tell
Why it is thus? And others who repeat
Stories of ice, to cool them in the heat?