Each hour until we meet is as a bird That wings from far his gradual way along The rustling covert of my soul. - Dante Gabriel Rossetti

If God in his wisdom have brought close
The day when I must die,
That day by water or fire or air
My feet shall fall in the destined snare Wherever my road may lie.

A translator ought to be faithful, but is not bound down to being literal.

Now kiss, and think that there are really those, My own high-bosom'd beauty, who increase Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might choose our way! Through many years they toil; then on a day They die not, — for their life was death, — but cease; And round their narrow lips the mould falls close.