But tell me not, you never saw the heart
That bosom heaves; nor ever saw the play
Of faith and freak within that twinkling eye;
Nor ever saw the spirit when the smile
That breaks in laughter shakes the form aside.
Come, friend, I know you better. Say you err;
Or, by my soul, I never read you yet.”
“And more,” said I; “she is not my ideal.”
He laugh’d again: “Most men who court ideals
Have first their idol; and, the false god fell’d,