Sonnet Xxxviii:

The swell and glitter of this stately stave Are tinsel trappings of but little worth; So poor they sometimes move my bitter mirth When to the common eye they look most brave. In vain around thy vital charms I wave My peacock plumes; or with the flowers of earth Deck thy young brow; or in my generous dearth Hang crowns of laurel on thy very grave. Oh! barren Art! Oh! fancy, bankrupt quite! In what sad colors is that pomp arrayed Which starts and trembles at the coming night! What have I done, for all I have essayed, But made a little ring of flickering light That, in a moment, passes into shade?