That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.

Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.

For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart: He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak.

A pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.

I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.

Live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.