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Though knowing its excitement is a fraud— Delirious—a mockery of fame. I may not image the deep solitude In which my spirit dwells. My days are past Among the cold, the careless, and the false. What part have I in them. or they in me? Yet I would be beloved; I would be kind; I would share others' sorrows, others' joys; I would fence in a happiness with friends. I cannot do this:—is the fault mine own? Can I love those who but repay my love With half caprice, half flattery; or trust, When I have full internal consciousness They are deceiving me? I may be kind, And meet with kindness, yet be lonely still; For gratitude is not companionship.—