Alfred Tennyson

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss:my own sweet Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amiss shall be unriddled by and by.

"My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss:
My own sweet Alice, we must die.
There's somewhat in this world amiss
Shall be unriddled by and by.

And as the boat-head wound along the willowy hills and fields among, they heard her singing her last song, the Lady of Shalott . . .