 | Specimens of American poetry |  |
WHAT IS HAPPINESS?
'T is an empty, fleeting shade,
By imagination made:
'T is a bubble, straw, or worse
'T is a baby's hobby-horse:
'T is two hundred shillings clear;
'T is ten thousand pounds a year:
'T is a title, 't is a name;
'T is a puff of empty fame;
Fickle as the breezes blow;
'T is a lady's yes or no!
And when the description's crown'd,
'T is just no where to be found.
By imagination made:
'T is a bubble, straw, or worse
'T is a baby's hobby-horse:
'T is two hundred shillings clear;
'T is ten thousand pounds a year:
'T is a title, 't is a name;
'T is a puff of empty fame;
Fickle as the breezes blow;
'T is a lady's yes or no!
And when the description's crown'd,
'T is just no where to be found.
Arouet shows, I must confess,
Says Delia, what is happiness;
I wish he now would tell us what
This self-same happiness is not.
Says Delia, what is happiness;
I wish he now would tell us what
This self-same happiness is not.
What happiness is not? I vow,
That, Delia, you have posed me now:
What it is not—stay, let me see—
I think, dear maid, 't is—not for me.
That, Delia, you have posed me now:
What it is not—stay, let me see—
I think, dear maid, 't is—not for me.
| Specimens of American poetry | |