Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreath[[nj]](#5197225498158184052_21811-h-25.htm.html#Footnote_nj)
[[316]](#5197225498158184052_21811-h-25.htm.html#Footnote_316)
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.