Sonnet L
In every breast Affection fires, there dwells
A secret consciousness to what degree
They are themselves belov’d.—We hourly see
Th’ involuntary proof, that either quells,
Or ought to quell false hopes,—or sets us free
From pain’d distrust;—but, O, the misery!
Weak Self-Delusion timidly repels
The lights obtrusive—shrinks from all that tells
Unwelcome truths, and vainly seeks repose
For startled Fondness, in the opiate balm,
Of kind profession, tho’, perchance, it flows
To hush Complaint—O! in Belief’s clear calm,
Or ’mid the lurid clouds of Doubt, we find
Love rise the Sun, or Comet of the Mind.