Were poured in one unclouded blaze
On Cleopatra’s deathless days,
I would not bear the wretched strife,
The feverish agony of life,
The little aims, the ends yet less,
The hopes bud-blighted era they bloom,
The joys that end in bitterness,
The race that rests but in the tomb,
These, these, not death, are misery.
Nay! tell not me of pomp or pleasure,