The spirit's eager sense for sad or gay Filleth with what he will our vessel full: Be joy his bent, he waiteth not joy's day But like a child at any toy will pull: If sorrow, he will weep for fancy's sake, And spoil heaven's plenty with forbidden care. What fortune most denies we slave to take; Nor can fate load us more than we can bear. Since pleasure with the having disappeareth, He who hath least in hand hath most at heart, While he keep hope: as he who alway feareth A grief that never comes hath yet the smart; And heavier far is our self-wrought distress, For when God sendeth sorrow, it doth bless. 50 The world comes not to an end: her city-hives Swarm with the tokens of a changeless trade, With rolling wheel, driver and flagging jade, Rich men and beggars, children, priests and wives. New homes on old are set, as lives on lives; Invention with invention overlaid: But still or tool or toy or book or blade Shaped for the hand, that holds and toils and strives. The men to-day toil as their fathers taught, With little better'd means; for works depend On works and overlap, and thought on thought: And thro' all change the smiles of hope amend The weariest face, the same love changed in nought: In this thing too the world comes not to an end. 51 O my uncared-for songs, what are ye worth, That in my secret book with so much care I write you, this one here and that one there, Marking the time and order of your birth? How, with a fancy so unkind to mirth, A sense so hard, a style so worn and bare, Look ye for any welcome anywhere From any shelf or heart-home on the earth? Should others ask you this, say then I yearn'd To write you such as once, when I was young, Finding I should have loved and thereto turn'd. 'Twere something yet to live again among The gentle youth beloved, and where I learn'd My art, be there remember'd for my song. 52 Who takes the census of the living dead, Ere the day come when memory shall o'ercrowd The kingdom of their fame, and for that proud And airy people find no room nor stead? Ere hoarding Time, that ever thrusteth back The fairest treasures of his ancient store, Better with best confound, so he may pack His greedy gatherings closer, more and more? Let the true Muse rewrite her sullied page, And purge her story of the men of hate, That they go dirgeless down to Satan's rage With all else foul, deform'd and miscreate: She hath full toil to keep the names of love Honour'd on earth, as they are bright above. 53