Conceal beneath its semblance fair
The lurking canker of despair.
And thou who in thine early morn
For sin the paths of truth art leaving,
Remember, though no pointed thorn
May pierce the garland thou art weaving,
Yet every bud whence flowrets bloom
Shall its own living sweets entomb;
For deep the canker worm of care
Is feasting on its vitals there.