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A Heart Snare

by Peter Burn

Why doth the heart brood o'er the past—
The past of many sorrows?
Why doth it looks of fondness cast
O'er scenes where mem'ries rise and blast
To-days, and coming morrows?

It fondly seeks for balm and joy,
But thorns grow with our flowers;
There's nought on earth without alloy,
The ways of life perplex—annoy—
The breeze unrobes our bowers.

Behind the clouds are sunny rays,
Behind our griefs are pleasures;
Pleasures which live, while life decays,
The heart to these a visit pays,
And proves them precious treasures.

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