Be deemed a work that many lovers know,
May live the man who doth not find it so,
Deriving bitter from the lauded sweet.
Taste is so rare, a thing so isolate,
That from the multitude it must recede,
Alone upon internal joy to feed;
Wherefore in self retired, and passionate,
I see what vieweth not the outer eye,
Cold to the soul and heedless of her sigh.
The world is blind, and from its praises vain