Анна Сьюард (Anna Seward)

Sonnet 50. In every breast Affection fires, there dwells

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.

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