In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 27

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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.

© Alfred Tennyson