Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto the Third, 1816

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XXXII.

   They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn:
   The tree will wither long before it fall:
   The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
   The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
   In massy hoariness; the ruined wall
   Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;
   The bars survive the captive they enthral;
   The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:
XXXIII.
   E'en as a broken mirror, which the glass
   In every fragment multiplies; and makes
   A thousand images of one that was,
   The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;
   And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,
   Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold,
   And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,
   Yet withers on till all without is old,
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold.
XXXIV.
   There is a very life in our despair,
   Vitality of poison,--a quick root
   Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were
   As nothing did we die; but life will suit
   Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit,
   Like to the apples on the Dead Sea shore,
   All ashes to the taste:  Did man compute
   Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er
Such hours 'gainst years of life,--say, would he name threescore?

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Frida Kahlo, Broken Column