Tis held that sorrow makes us wise.

Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is just to do or die.

If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life!

I stood on a tower in the wet, And New Year and Old Year met, And winds were roaring and blowing: And I said, "O years, that meet in tears, Have ye aught that is worth the knowing? Science enough and exploring, Wanderers coming and going, Matter enough for deploring, But aught that is worth the knowing?

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.