Still onward winds the dreary way; I with it; for I long to prove No lapse of moons can canker Love, Whatever fickle tongues may say.
And if that eye which watches guilt And goodness, and hath power to see Within the green the moulder'd tree, And towers fall'n as soon as built—
Oh, if indeed that eye foresee Or see (in Him is no before) In more of life true life no more And Love the indifference to be,
Then might I find, ere yet the morn Breaks hither over Indian seas, That Shadow waiting with the keys, To shroud me from my proper scorn.
-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto XXVI