As in the midst of battle there is room 
   For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth; 
   As gossips whisper of a trinket's worth 
Spied by the death-bed's flickering candle-gloom; 
As in the crevices of Caesar's tomb 
   The sweet herbs flourish on a little earth: 
   So in this great disaster of our birth 
We can be happy, and forget our doom. 

For morning, with a ray of tenderest joy 
   Gilding the iron heaven, hides the truth, 
And evening gently woos us to employ 
   Our grief in idle catches. Such is youth; 
Till from that summer's trance we wake, to find 
Despair before us, vanity behind.