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.’