Nothing begins, and nothing ends,
That is not paid with moan,
For we are born in other's pain,
And perish in our own.
The angels keep their ancient places;—
Turn but a stone, and start a wing!
‘Tis ye, ‘tis your estranged faces,
That miss the many-splendoured thing.
Across the margent of the world I fled,
And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars:
Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o’ the moon.