Canto LXXIII

So many worlds, so much to do,    So little done, such things to be,    How know I what had need of thee, For thou wert strong as thou wert true?

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw,    The head hath miss'd an earthly wreath:    I curse not nature, no, nor death; For nothing is that errs from law.

We pass; the path that each man trod    Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds:    What fame is left for human deeds In endless age? It rests with God.

O hollow wraith of dying fame,    Fade wholly, while the soul exults,    And self-infolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name.

-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto LXXIII