Classic Poem

So slide our comforts by, unmark'd, unknown,
While our ill fate comes felt , and all our own!
Too cruel world! where things, we wou'd refuse ,
We start upon — and, what we wish , we lose!
And, yet, Lotharia would be hid , in vain,
She cannot be conceal'd, whom thoughts retain.
Air , and Lotharia , every where, are found;
Held by our breath, and, to our being , bound!
Darkness, itself, wants pow'r to cover friends ,
Whom the soul dwells with, and the sense attends.