Come What May, I Have

No Ear Can Hear Nor Tongue Can Tell The Tortures Of The Inward Hell!

The Light Of Love, The Purity Of Grace, The Mind, The Music Breathing From Her Face, The Heart Whose Softness Harmonised The Whole — And, Oh! That Eye Was In Itself A Soul!

There's Not A Joy The World Can Give Like That It Takes Away.

And If I Laugh At Any Mortal Thing, 'tis That I May Not Weep.

None Are So Desolate But Something Dear, Dearer Than Self, Possesses Or Possess'd A Thought, And Claims The Homage Of A Tear.