Whom I would clasp, detain, adore,—
If I forego that strange delight,
Must all be lost? Not quite, not quite.
Die, Little Love, without complaint,
Whom honour standeth by to shrive:
Assoilèd from all selfish taint,
Die, Love, whom Friendship will survive.
Not hate nor folly gave thee birth;
And briefness does but raise thy worth.
This is the same thought which Tennyson expressed in his famous lines,