The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.
I am a part of all that I have met.
Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be?
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair.
And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!