Alfred Tennyson (1809–1892)

O, WERE I loved as I desire to be!

What is there in the great sphere of the earth,

Or range of evil between death and birth,

That I should fear,—if I were loved by thee?

All the inner, all the outer world of pain,

Clear love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine;

As I have heard that somewhere in the main

Fresh-water springs come up through bitter brine.

’T were joy, not fear, clasped hand in hand with thee,

To wait for death—mute—careless of all ills,

Apart upon a mountain, though the surge

Of some new deluge from a thousand hills

Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge

Below us, as far on as eye could see.