I envy not in any
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods:
I envy not the beast that
His license in the field of time,
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes;
Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
Nor any want-begotten rest.
I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;'Tis better to have loved and
Than never to have loved at all.
