For Pleasures Past I Do Not Grieve,

The Thorns Which I Have Reap'd Are Of The Tree I Planted; They Have Torn Me, And I Bleed. I Should Have Known What Fruit Would Spring From Such A Seed.

Oh! Snatched Away In Beauty's Bloom, On Thee Shall Press No Ponderous Tomb; But On Thy Turf Shall Roses Rear Their Leaves, The Earliest Of The Year.

What Is Death, So It Be But Glorious? 'tis A Sunset; And Mortals May Be Happy To Resemble The Gods But In Decay.

Such Hath It Been--shall Be--beneath The Sun The Many Still Must Labour For The One.

Whatsoever Thy Birth, Thou Wert A Beautiful Thought, And Softly Bodied Forth.