Not solely that the Future she destroys, 
And the fair life which in the distance lies 
For all men, beckoning out from dim rich skies: 
Nor that the passing hour's supporting joys 
Have lost the keen-edged flavour, which begat 
Distinction in old times, and still should breed 
Sweet Memory, and Hope,--earth's modest seed, 
And heaven's high-prompting: not that the world is flat 
Since that soft-luring creature I embraced, 
Among the children of Illusion went: 
Methinks with all this loss I were content, 
If the mad Past, on which my foot is based, 
Were firm, or might be blotted: but the whole 
Of life is mixed: the mocking Past will stay: 
And if I drink oblivion of a day, 
So shorten I the stature of my soul.