Worlds without stint, and quit them for the clay
Of some new planet where a summer's day
Lasts fifty years; and there to celebrate
Our Golden Wedding, by the will of Fate—
This were a subject for a seraph's lay.
XX.
This were a life to live,—a life indeed,—
A thing to die for; if, in truth, we die
When we but put our mortal vestments by.
This were a climax for a lover's need