When I reflect how little I have done,
And add to that how little I have seen,
Then furthermore how little I have won
Of joy, or good, how little known, or been:
I long for other life more full, more keen,
And yearn to change with such as well have run —
Yet reason mocks me — nay, the soul, I ween,
Granted her choice would dare to change with none;
No,— not to feel, as Blondel when his lay
Pierced the strong tower, and Richard answered it —
No,— not to do, as Eustace on the day
He left fair Calais to her weeping lit —
No,— not to be, Columbus, waked from sleep
When his new world rose from the charmèd deep.