The tale that we might tell hath oft been told.
Many have look'd to the bright sun with sadness,
Many have look'd to the dark grave with gladness;
Many have griev'd to death—have lov'd to madness!
What has been, is;—what is, will be;—I know,
Even while the heart drops blood, it must be so.
I live and smile—for O the griefs that kill,
Kill slowly—and I bear within me still
My conscious self, and my unconquer'd will!
And knowing what I have been—what has made