So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee, For thou wert strong as thou wert true?
The fame is quench’d that I foresaw, The head hath miss’d an earthly wreath: I curse not nature; no, nor death, For nothing is that errs from law.
We pass: the path that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: What fame is left for human deeds In endless age? It rests with God.
O hollow wraith of dying fame, Fade wholly, while the soul exults, And self-infolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name.