The faded form of past delight recalls,
What time the morning sun of Hope arose,
And all was joy; save when another’s woes
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,
Like passing cloud impictur’d on thy breast.
Life’s current then ran sparkling to the noon,
Or silv’ry stole beneath the pensive moon.
Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,
Or o’er the rough rock bursts and foams along!
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.