As in the midst of battle there is room <br />For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth; <br />As gossips whisper of a trinket's worth <br />Spied by the death-bed's flickering candle-gloom; <br />As in the crevices of Caesar's tomb <br />The sweet herbs flourish on a little earth <br />So in this great disaster of our birth <br />We can be happy, and forget our doom. <br /> <br />For morning, with a ray of tenderest joy <br />Gilding the iron heaven, hides the truth, <br />And evening gently woos us to employ <br />Our grief in idle catches. Such is youth; <br />Till from that summer's trance we wake, to find <br />Despair before us, vanity behind.<br /><br />George Santayana<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxv-2/
