 | Letters of Laura D'Auverne |  |
190
EVERY MAN HAS HIS FAULT.
Take life as it is,—'tis a folly to sigh,
Or to seek for a treasure when seeking is vain;
If friendship's a light that goes speedily by,
Regretting its loss is but adding to pain.
Perfection's a thing rarely found upon earth:
We may cherish the hope,—and our fancy exalt;
But though we meet many of honour and worth,
We find, before long, Every man hath his fault.
Or to seek for a treasure when seeking is vain;
If friendship's a light that goes speedily by,
Regretting its loss is but adding to pain.
Perfection's a thing rarely found upon earth:
We may cherish the hope,—and our fancy exalt;
But though we meet many of honour and worth,
We find, before long, Every man hath his fault.
If a world we require that will always be true,
We must learn where it is from the fairies or elves;
The errors of friendship are easy to view,—
Not so easy the errors that lie in ourselves.
No!—perfection's a thing rarely found upon earth:
We may cherish the hope,—and our fancy exalt;
But though we meet many of honour and worth,
We find, before long, Every man hath his fault.
We must learn where it is from the fairies or elves;
The errors of friendship are easy to view,—
Not so easy the errors that lie in ourselves.
No!—perfection's a thing rarely found upon earth:
We may cherish the hope,—and our fancy exalt;
But though we meet many of honour and worth,
We find, before long, Every man hath his fault.
| Letters of Laura D'Auverne | |