When its bright tints a mask have been
To hide a heart of common clay.
I’ll blame thee not—for I, perchance,
May learn the trick of gladness well,
And none shall mark upon my brow
A trace of joy or pain to tell.
I’ll blame thee not—for I will care
No more to bind a restive heart,
Though every joy my life can know
Should with its passion-dream depart.