The danger is in domestic
happiness pricks of
conscience the sound
of his harp a species
by itself I attempted
every morning to persevere
all other pleasures depend
upon it having passed twenty
years in ups & downs upon
the ocean of patience
a repetition of misery
& happiness I converse
daily & hourly in the
immense flood I begin
to emerge from a deep
melancholy I have been
too little among friends
I remember a rare bird
in London & I hid my face
for not being able to
hear this communication
of sentiments believe me
I owe my present happiness
to poetry my dearest friend
