I.
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ow vilely ’twere to misdeserveThe poet’s gift of perfect speech,In song to try, with trembling nerve,The limit of its utmost reach,Only to sound the wretched praiseOf what to-morrow shall not be;So mocking with immortal baysThe cross-bones of mortality!I do not thus. My faith is fastThat all the loveliness I singIs made to bear the mortal blast,And blossom in a better Spring.Doubts of eternity ne’er crossThe Lover’s mind, divinely clear;_For ever_ is the gain or lossWhich maddens him with hope or fear:So trifles serve for his relief,And trifles make him sick and pale;And yet his pleasure and his griefAre both on a majestic scale.The chance, indefinitely small,Of issue infinitely great,Eclipses finite interests all,And has the dignity of fate.
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