Could I have said while he was here, "My love shall now no further range; There cannot come a mellower change, For now is love mature in ear?"
Love, then, had hope of richer store: What end is here to my complaint? This haunting whisper makes me faint, "More years had made me love thee more.'
But Death returns an answer sweet: "My sudden frost was sudden gain, And gave all ripeness to the grain, It might have drawn from after-heat."
-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto LXXXI