Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
Have not all past human beings parted, And must not all the present, one day part?
Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.
Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days!
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!