Of fancy, dreaming care:
A mocking bitter, like thine own,
Wells up from fountains, deep and lone,
From core and spirit, soul and bone—
I’ve felt thee every where!
Thou’st mocked my hope and dashed my joy,
With keen rebuke and cold alloy;
The father, son, the man, the boy,
All, all! have felt the rod!
Perchance not all thy work in vain,