When we are old and these rejoicing veins
Are frosty channels to a muted stream
And out of all our burning their remains
No feeblest spark to fire us, even in dream
This be our solace: that it was not said
When we were young and warm and in our prime
Upon our couch we lay as lie the dead
Sleeping away the unreturning time
O sweet, O heavy-lidded, O my love
When morning strikes her spear upon the land
And we must rise and arm us and reprove
The insolent daylight with a steady hand
Be not discountenanced if the knowing know
We rose from rapture but an hour ago