Oh, when have after-days or evenings brought
Forgiveness home to penitence downcast?
Oh, when has trust been perfect, honour fast,
But fault or fate have made it all of nought?

What joy of ours is tinged not with a thought
Of future emptiness, or wasted past?
What sorrow ever seems to be the last?
What treasure found compares with treasure sought?

In pale fruition we shall ne'er forget
The splendid dream our eagerness did make;
A shadow lies on all things; let us take
Our share, and battle on a little yet.

Friend, keep my hand! let friendship never break;
Let one thing be at least "without regret."