Sonnet L

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.