Nay: by this desolate sea our troubled ways

Shall separate forever; swift hath sped

The hour of youth, and yet to hang the head,

Lamenting lost things of departed days,

Were only from that shadowland to raise

A wraith, that whispering of the quiet dead,

Would mimic the strange life of love; instead,

Let us relent and hail the past with praise.

Go, then; and should inevitable fate

Lead us at last beyond the world of men

Where laurel and applause content no more,

Whither the soul takes silence for its mate,

There might we meet, and, smiling, once again

Clasp hands and part upon some windy shore.