Day, when my crown’d estate begun To pine in that reverse of doom, Which sickened every living bloom, And blurr’d the splendour of the sun; Who usherest in the dolorous hour With thy quick tears that make the rose Pull sideways, and the daisy close Her crimson fringes to the shower; Who might’st have heaved a windless flame Up the deep East, or, whispering, play’d A chequer-work of beam and shade From hill to hill, yet look’d the same, As wan, as chill, as wild as now; Day, mark’d as with some hideous crime, When the dark hand struck down thro’ time. And cancell’d nature’s best: but thou, Lift as thou may’st thy burthen’d brows Thro’ clouds that drench the morning star, And whirl the ungarner’d sheaf afar, And sow the sky with flying boughs, And up thy vault with roaring sound Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day; Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray, And hide thy shame beneath the ground. LXXI. So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee, For thou wert strong as thou wert true? The fame is quench’d that I foresaw, The head hath miss’d an earthly wreath: I curse not nature; no, nor death, For nothing is that errs from law. We pass: the path that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: What fame is left for human deeds In endless age? It rests with God. O hollow wraith of dying fame, Fade wholly, while the soul exults, And self-infolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name. LXXII. As sometimes in a dead man’s face, To those that watch it more and more, A likeness hardly seen before Comes out--to some one of his race: So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, I see thee what thou art, and know Thy likeness to the wise below, Thy kindred with the great of old. But there is more than I can see, And what I see I leave unsaid, Nor speak it, knowing Death has made His darkness beautiful with thee. LXXIII. I leave thy praises unexpress’d In verse that brings myself relief, And by the measure of my grief I leave thy greatness to be guess’d; What practice howsoe’er expert In fitting aptest words to things, Or voice the richest-toned that sings, Hath power to give thee as thou wert? I care not in these fading days To raise a cry that lasts not long, And round thee with the breeze of song To stir a little dust of praise. Thy leaf has perish’d in the green, And, while we breathe beneath the sun, The world which credits what is done Is cold to all that might have been.