Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt; I lull a fancy trouble-tost With "Love's too precious to be lost, A little grain shall not be spilt."
And in that solace can I sing, Till out of painful phases wrought There flutters up a happy thought, Self-balanced on a lightsome wing:
Since we deserved the name of friends, And thine effect so lives in me, A part of mine may live in thee And move thee on to noble ends.
-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto LXV