Nor happy men keep happy to the end:
Since all things change—their natures part in twain;
And that man's bravest therefore, who hopes on,
Hopes ever: to despair is coward-like.
Choros. These domes that overroof,
This long-used couch, I come to, having made
A staff my prop, that song may put to proof
The swan-like power, age-whitened,—poet's aid
Of sobbed-forth dirges—words that stand aloof
From action now: such am I—just a shade