There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away <br />When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; <br />'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, <br />But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. <br /> <br />Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness <br />Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess: <br />The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain <br />The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again. <br /> <br />Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; <br />It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; <br />That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, <br />And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears. <br /> <br />Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, <br />Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest, <br />'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreath— <br />All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath. <br /> <br />Oh, could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, <br />Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene; <br />As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, <br />So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stanzas-for-music-there-s-not-a-joy-the-world-ca/
