FELICITY

A squalid, hideous town, where streams run black

With vomit of a hundred roaring mills,—

Hither occasion calls me; and ev'n here,

All in the sable reek that wantonly

Defames the sunlight and deflowers the morn,

One may at least surmise the sky still blue.

Ev'n here, the myriad slaves of the machine

Deem life a boon; and here, in days far sped,

I overheard a kind-eyed girl relate

To her companions, how a favouring chance

By some few shillings weekly had increased

The earnings of her household, and she said:

“So now we are happy, having all we wished,” —

Felicity indeed! though more it lay

In wanting little than in winning all.

Felicity indeed! Across the years

To me her tones come back, rebuking; me,

Spreader of toils to snare the wandering Joy

No guile may capture and no force surprise —

Only by them that never wooed her, won.

O curst with wide desires and spacious dreams,

Too cunningly do ye accumulate

Appliances and means of happiness,

E'er to be happy! Lavish hosts, ye make

Elaborate preparation to receive

A shy and simple guest, who, warned of all

The ceremony and circumstance wherewith

Ye mean to entertain her, will not come.