when his sharp eyes discover The flaws in his jewel. 

The lover

 Maurice from his room Looked dreamily down on the garden of bloom, Where Ruth sat with Roger; he smiled as he thought How quickly the world sated cynic was brought Into harness by Cupid. The man mad with drink, And the man mad with love, is quite certain to think All other men drunkards or lovers. In truth Maurice had expected his friend to love Ruth. "She was young, she was fair; with her bright sunny art She could scatter the mists from his world befogged heart. She could give him the one heaven under God's dome, A peaceful, well ordered, and love-guarded home. And he? why of course he would worship her! When Cupid finds the soft spot in the hearts of such men They are ideal husbands."  Maurice Somerville Felt the whole world was shaping itself to his will. And his heart stirred with joy as, by thought necromancy, He made the near future unfold to his fancy, And saw Ruth the bride of his friend, and the place She left vacant supplied with the beauty and grace Of this woman he longed for, the love of his life, Fair Mabel, his angel, his sweet spirit wife. 

Maurice from his room

 Maurice to his desk turned again and once more Began to unburden his bosom and pour His heart out on paper—the poet's relief, When drunk with life's rapture or sick with its grief. 

 

 Song. 

 When shall I tell my lady that I love her? Will it be while the sunshine woos the world, Or when the mystic twilight bends above her, Or when the day's bright banners all are furled? Will wild winds shriek, or will the calm stars glow, When I shall tell her that I love her so, I love her so? 

Will it be while the sunshine woos the world,

Or when the day's bright banners all are furled?

I love her so?

 I think the sun should shine in all his glory; Again, the twilight seems the fitting time. Yet sweet dark night would understand the story, So old, so new, so tender, so sublime. Wild storms should rage to chord with my desire, Yet faithful stars should shine and never tire, And never tire. 

Again, the twilight seems the fitting time.

So old, so new, so tender, so sublime.

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