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Samuel Taylor Coleridge - On A Connubial Rupture In High Life
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I sigh, fair injured stranger! for thy fate;
  But what shall sighs avail thee? Thy poor heart,
`Mid all the `pomp and circumstance` of state,
  Shivers in nakedness.  Unbidden, start 

Sad recollections of Hope`s garish dream,
  That shaped a seraph form, and named it Love,
Its hues gay-varying, as the orient beam
  Varies the neck of Cytherea`s dove. 

To one soft accent of domestic joy,
  Poor are the shouts that shake the high-arched dome:
Those plaudits, that thy public path annoy,
  Alas! they tell thee--Thou`rt a wretch at home!

O then retire and weep!  Their very woes
  Solace the guiltless.  Drop the pearly flood
On thy sweet infant, as the full-blown rose,
  Surcharged with dew, bends o`er its neighb`ring bud.

And oh that Truth some holy spell might lend
  To lure thy wanderer from the syren`s power,
Then bid your souls inseparably blend
  Like two bright dewdrops meeting in a flower.
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