One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washèd it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, Ease after war, death after life does greatly please.
Her angel's face, As the great eye of heaven shined bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place.
The poets' scrolls will outlive the monuments of stone. Genius survives; all else is claimed by death.
And he that strives to touch the stars, Oft stumbles at a straw.
He that strives to touch the starts, oft stumbles at a straw.
