Happiness
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appiness, to some, elation;Is, to others, mere stagnation.Days of passive somnolence,At its wildest, indolence.Hours of empty quietness,No delight, and no distress. Happiness to me is wine,Effervescent, superfine.Full of tang and fiery pleasure,Far too hot to leave me leisureFor a single thought beyond it.Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: itMeans to give one's soul to gainLife's quintessence. Even painPricks to livelier living, thenWakes the nerves to laugh again,Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.Although we must die to-morrow,Losing every thought but this;Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss. Happiness: We rarely feel it.I would buy it, beg it, steal it,Pay in coins of dripping bloodFor this one transcendent good.
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