For, even there translucent thought’s deep roll,
There the slight foam but beautifies the blue,
O let me write my name along that scroll,
That mirror, varying to a lovelier hue!
Thou, like the cold world, will not e’er forget;
When thou must die, my fame shall wither too;
For what were laurels when with weeping wet?
Though fame be lost, yet love shall fly with you;
Yet nought shall perish; for one thought of thine
Hath breath’d eternity through these slight lays;
And I can dare the world’s poor scornful whine
To spoil the smoothness of thy perfect praise:
I know these strains are weak, yet love them still,
Their blind obedience only owns thy will.