A goodly sound. Of such things have I aught?
There is a foil to make their substance naught.
“What were his gifts who made each lovely thing,
Yet lacked the gift of love? or what the fame
Of some dwarfed poet, whose numbers still we sing,
If no fair woman trembled where he came?
The beggar dying in ditch is not accurst
If love once crowned him! Fate may do her worst.
“For Age that erst has drawn the wine of love
And filled its birth-cup to the jewelled brim,