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Poetical Sketches, (E 416)
SONG.
"My silks and fine array,
My smiles and languish'd air,
By love are driv'n away;
And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.
The artificiality of innocence is forced away by experience. Simple pleasures are replaced by the sorrows of experience.
"His face is fair as heav'n,
When springing buds unfold;
O why to him wast giv'n,
Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is love's all worship'd tomb,
Where all love's pilgrims come,"
Loveliness and simplicity are appearances; within is the difficult effort of finding truth through dealing with contraries.
'Bring me an axe and spade,
Bring me a winding sheet;
When I my grave have made,
Let winds and tempests beat:
Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay.
True love doth pass away!"
When one dies to the outward and enters the inward, one gives up expectations of affirmation and appreciation and success.
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