ALL beautiful things bring sadness, nor alone 
Music, whereof that wisest poet spake; 
Because in us keen longings they awake 
After the good for which we pine and groan, 
From which exil?d we make continual moan, 
Till once again we may our spirits slake 
At those clear streams, which man did first forsake, 
When he would dig for fountains of his own. 
All beauty makes us sad, yet not in vain: 
For who would be ungracious to refuse, 
Or not to use, this sadness without pain, 
Whether it flows upon us from the hues 
Of sunset, from the time of stars and dews, 
From the clear sky, or waters pure of stain?