Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 2 of 2.djvu/204

 Hours, when the Poet's words and looks Had yet their native glow: Not yet the fear of little books Had made him talk for show; But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd, He flash'd his random speeches; Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd His literary leeches.

So mix for ever with the past, Like all good things on earth! For should I prize thee, could'st thou last, At half thy real worth? I hold it good, good things should pass: With time I will not quarrel: It is but yonder empty glass That makes me maudlin-moral. Head-waiter of the chop-house here, To which I most resort, I too must part: I hold thee dear For this good pint of port.