Ah, Tell Them They Are Men!

Full Many A Gem Of Purest Ray Serene, The Dark Unfathomed Caves Of Ocean Bear.

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.

Gay Hope Is Theirs By Fancy Fed, Less Pleasing When Possest; The Tear Forgot As Soon As Shed, The Sunshine Of The Breast.

Behind The Steps That Misery Treads Approaching Comfort View: The Hues Of Bliss More Brightly Glow Chastised By Sabler Tints Of Woe, And Blended Form, With Artful Strife, The Strength And Harmony Of Life.

And Moody Madness Laughing Wild Amid Severest Woe.