DWELL thou in sorrow’s house. Be sure

There is no choicer spot on earth,

And silent tears are better worth

Than wine a wounded heart to cure.

O moth, why flutter round the gleam

Of lamps that desecrate the night?

Rest here within the placid light

Where moonbeams on the cottage dream.

And shouldst thou then a cordial need

To warm the heart and fire the brain,

List to the watchwords that obtain

Among the brethren of our creed.

“Love, wine, and roses, blissful ease,”—

On suchlike themes the converse rolls

That bears aloft discerning souls,

Expert the inward sense to seize.

What if the heart’s consuming fire

Should burn away its earthly shell?

Shall not the lover deem it well

To doff the bonds that balk desire?