XXVII.
 

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;
    ’Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.