| I held it truth, with him who sings | |
| To one clear harp in divers tones, | |
| That men may rise on stepping-stones | |
| Of their dead selves to higher things. | |
| |
| But who shall so forecast the years | 5 |
| And find in loss a gain to match? | |
| Or reach a hand thro’ time to catch | |
| The far-off interest of tears? | |
| |
| Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown’d, | |
| Let darkness keep her raven gloss: | 10 |
| Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, | |
| To dance with death, to beat the ground, | |
| |
| Than that the victor Hours should scorn | |
| The long result of love, and boast, | |
| ‘Behold the man that loved and lost, | 15 |
| But all he was is overworn.’ | |