He whose black robe denotes his gloomy soul,
Which burrows in dark subways like a mole,
⁠Is but a stunted and abortive thing,
And not a man with nature sound and whole.

Let us endure and suffer when we must,
But never mirth and happiness mistrust:
⁠Without them what a dreary path we tread!
They are the oil of life, which else would rust.