Or those sweet bands, which Aphrodite's fingers
Weave round the trusting heart,
Or whatsoever joy or breathing-space
Kind Heaven hath given to worn humanity—
Thine is the charm, to thee they owe the grace.
Life's chaplet blossoms only where thou art,
And pleasure's year attains its sunny spring;
And where thy smile is not, our joy is but a sigh. —E. B. C.