What hope is hero for modern rhyme
To him, who turns a musing eye
One sings, and deeds, and lives, that lie
Foreshortened in the tract of time?
These mortal lullabies of pain
May bind a book, may line a box,
May serve to curle a mainden´s locks;
Or when a thousand moons shall wane
A man upon a stall may find,
And, passing, may turn the page that tells
A grief, than changed to something else,
Sung by a long-forgotten mind.
But what of that? My darkened ways
Shall ring with music all the same;
To breathe my loss is more than fame,
To utter love mores sweet than praise
