…from the quills of the dead white poets
Alfred Tennyson (1809 – 1892)
(From “In Memoriam”)
I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods; I envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter’d by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes; Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; ‘T is better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.