Only to dupe and to be thus requited!
How many such there be!—in whom the thorn
Which Disappointment plants festers in vain,
Save as the instrument of sleepless pain—
Who bear about with them the burning feeling
And fire of that intolerable word
Which, inly searching, pierceth, like a sword,
The breast whose wounds thenceforward know no healing!
Behold the overteeming globe! Its millions
Bear mournful witness. Cycles, centuries roll,