One hour of passion carries to the grave
A world of resolution and high hope:
Why should I be the bent subdued slave
Of such a hopeless love? — with Time why cope
To break the wing of Fortune adverse ever?
Why seek to make immortal in a line
The excellence of beauty? — I shall never
Possess Thee, Idol as thou art of mine.
So the capricious tenor of our lives
Is hung on little chances, paltry things:
The deeper our clear speculation dives
The falser are our fine imaginings.
My abstract thought is tinted by affection,
And truth is but Thy beauty's fine reflection.