New Book Project

  I envy not in any moods
        The captive void of noble rage,
        The linnet born within the cage,
    That never knew the summer woods;

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    In 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;

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    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.

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    I hold it true, whate'er befall;
        I feel it, when I sorrow most;
        'T is better to have loved and lost
    than never to have loved at all.

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Alfred Tennyson