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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part II: To Juliet: XLVIII
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THE SAME CONTINUED
 I think there never was a dearer woman,
 A better, kinder, truer than you were,
 A gentler spirit more divinely human
 Than yours with your sweet melancholy air
 Of tender gaiety, which seemed like care,
 And in your voice a sob as of distress
 At the world`s ways, its sin and its despair,
 Being yourself all strange to wickedness.
 Now you are neither gentle, kind, nor good,
 And you have sorrows of your own to grieve,
 And in your mirth compassion has no mood;
 You wear no more your heart upon your sleeve,
 And if your voice still sobs `tis with a sense
 Of sorrow`s power, grief`s wealth, experience.
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