Alfred Lord Tennyson (
1809-
1892)
I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble
rage,
The
linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods:
I envy not the beast that takes
His license in the field of time,
Unfetter’d by the sense of crime,
To whom a
conscience never wakes;
Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted
troth
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
Nor any want-begotten rest.
I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I
sorrow most;
’Tis
better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.