For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, It might have been!
O Time and change! -- with hair as gray as was my sire's that winter day, how strange it seems, with so much gone of life and love, to still live on!
Clothe with life the weak intent, let me be the thing I meant.
Speak out in acts; the time for words has passed, and only deeds will suffice.
They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses perished; And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead
Before me, even as behind, God is, and all is well.
Give fools their gold, and knaves their power; let fortune's bubbles rise and fall; who sows a field, or trains a flower, or plants a tree, is more than all.