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Sonnets 1 / 27
So to the mind long brooding but on it
A haunting theme for anger, joy, or tears,
With ardent eyes, not what we think appears;
But hunted home, behold! its opposite.
Worn sorrow breaking in disastrous mirth,
And wild tears wept of laughter, like the drops
Shook by the trampling thunder to the earth;
And each seems either, or but a counterfeit
Of that it would dissemble: hopes are fears
And love is woe: nor here the discord stops;
But through all human life runs the account,
Born into pain and ending bitterly--
Yet sweet perchance, betweentime, like a fount
That rises salt and freshens to the sea.

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