We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.

Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.

And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.

A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.

The unconquerable pang of despised love.