The poem
I SAID my pleasure shall not move; It is not fixed in things apart: Seeking not love—but yet to love— I put my trust in mine own heart.
I knew the fountain of the deep Wells up with living joy, unfed: Such joys the lonely heart may keep, And love grow rich with love unwed.
Still flows the ancient fount sublime;— But, ah, for my heart, shed tears, shed tears; Not it, but love, has scorn of time, It turns to dust beneath the years.