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.