Whose numerous liquid tongues sing to the hours;
Yet rise my days behind me, like the hills
Unstayed by light of mighty triumphs won;
Alas! what have I done? What have I done?
Be still, my soul, restrain thy lips from woe!
Cease thy lament! for life is but the flower,
The fruit comes after death; how can’st thou know
The roundness of its form, its depth of power?
Death is life’s morning. When thy work’s begun,
Then ask thyself—what yet is to be done?