There are there no deceptions or changes, And there all is lovely and still; No grief nor fate that estranges, Nor hope that no life can fulfil, But ethereal shelter from ill.

But my manner offends; my ways are wholly repugnant; Every word that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels her; Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite presence, Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs her from me.