I.

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
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;
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,
But all he was is overworn.’