XLVI.
             
        We ranging down this lower track,
            The path we came by, thorn and flower,
            Is shadow’d by the growing hour,
        Lest life should fail in looking back.

        So be it: there no shade can last
            In that deep dawn behind the tomb,
            But clear from marge to marge shall bloom
        The eternal landscape of the past;

        A lifelong tract of time reveal’d;
            The fruitful hours of still increase;
            Days order’d in a wealthy peace,
        And those five years its richest field.

        O Love, thy province were not large,
            A bounded field, nor stretching far;
            Look also, Love, a brooding star,
        A rosy warmth from marge to marge.