Samuel Taylor Coleridge — On a Late Connubial Rupture in High Life

I sigh, fair injur'd stranger! for thy fate;        &nbspBut what shall sighs avail thee? thy poor heart, 'Mid all the 'pomp and circumstance' of state,        &nbspShivers in nakedness. Unbidden, start Sad recollections of Hope's garish dream,        &nbspThat shaped a seraph form, and named it Love, Its hues gay-varying, as the orient beam        &nbspVaries the neck of Cytherea's dove. To one soft accent of domestic joy        &nbspPoor are the shouts that shake the high-arch'd dome; Those plaudits that thy public path annoy,        &nbspAlas! they tell thee—Thou'rt a wretch at home! O then retire, and weep! Their very woes        &nbspSolace the guiltless. Drop the pearly flood On thy sweet infant, as the full-blown rose,        &nbspSurcharg'd with dew, bends o'er its neighbouring bud. And ah! that Truth some holy spell might lend        &nbspTo lure thy Wanderer from the Syren's power; Then bid your souls inseparably blend        &nbspLike two bright dew-drops meeting in a flower.