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/as-in-the-midst-of-battle-there-is-room/
