Ce que croit ma raison, quoi qu'il puisse arriver, Et ce que sent mon cœur en sa douleur amère, C'est que mieux vaut l'amour suivi d'un deuil austère… - Alfred Tennyson

But in my spirit will I dwell,
And dream my dream, and hold it true;
For tho' my lips breath adieu,
I cannot think the thing farewell.

Sooner or later I too may passively take the print
Of the golden age — why not? I have neither hope nor trust;
May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint,
Cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? we are ashes and dust.

Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown.