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Lift not the painted veil which those who live |
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Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there, |
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And it but mimic all we would believe |
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With colours idly spread,--behind, lurk Fear |
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And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave |
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Their shadows, o'er the chasm, sightless and drear. |
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I knew one who had lifted it--he sought, |
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For his lost heart was tender, things to love, |
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But found them not, alas! nor was there aught |
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The world contains, the which he could approve. |
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Through the unheeding many he did move, |
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A splendour among shadows, a bright blot |
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Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove |
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For truth, and like the Preacher found it not. |
