I held it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones, 
That men may rise on stepping-stones 
Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years 
And find in loss a gain to match? 
Or reach a hand thro’ time to catch 
The far-off interest of tears? 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown’d, 
Let darkness keep her raven gloss: 
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, 
To dance with death, to beat the ground, 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
The long result of love, and boast, 
‘Behold the man that loved and lost, 
But all he was is overworn.’ 

[In Memoriam A.H.H. by Lord Alfred Tennyson]