Chapter CXCVII

For there it lies, so tranquil, so beloved:
All that it hath of life with us is living;
So gentle, stirless, helpless and unmoved,
And all unconscious of the joy ’tis giving;
All it hath felt, inflicted, pass’d, and proved,
Hush’d into depths beyond the watcher’s diving;
There lies the thing we love, with all its errors
And all its charms, like death, without its terrors.