But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.

Hold thou the good; define it well; For fear divine Philosophy Should push beyond her mark, and be Procuress to the Lords of Hell.

Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill.

And Time, a maniac scattering dust, And Life, a Fury slinging flame.

Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side?

How fares it with the happy dead?

Be near me when my light is low.

I do but sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing.

’Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. 3

And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land.