Yet if some voice that man could trust
⁠Should murmur from the narrow house:
⁠The cheeks drop in; the body bows;
Man dies: nor is there hope in dust:

Might I not say, yet even here,
⁠But for one hour, O Love, I strive
⁠To keep so sweet a thing alive?
But I should turn mine ears and hear

The moanings of the homeless sea,
⁠The sound of streams that swift or slow
⁠Draw down Æonian hills, and sow
The dust of continents to be;

And Love would answer with a sigh,
⁠‘The sound of that forgetful shore
⁠Will change my sweetness more and more,
Half-dead to know that I shall die.'