 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
55
RESERVE.
O dark and frozen fiend, Love's mortal bane!Lethargic poison of the moral sense,
Killing those high-soul'd children of the brain
Warm Enterprise and noble Confidence,
Fly from my threshold, traitor, get thee hence!
Without thee we are open, cheerful, kind,
Mistrusting none but Self, injurious self,
Of and to others wishing only good;
With thee, suspicions crowd the gloomy mind,
Suggesting all the world a viperous brood,
That acts a base bad part in hope of pelf:
Virtue stands shamed, Truth mute misunderstood,
Honour unhonour'd, Courage lacking nerve,
Beneath thy dull domestic curse, Reserve!
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