Canto LXXI

So many worlds, so much to do,

      So little done, such things to be,

      How know I what had need of thee,

For thou wert strong as thou wert true?

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw,

      The head hath miss'd an earthly wreath:

      I curse not Nature, no, nor death,

For nothing is that errs from law.

We pass: the path that each man trod

      Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds:

      What fame is left for human deeds

In endless age? It rests with God.

O hollow wraith of dying fame,

      Fade wholly, while the soul exults,

      And self-infolds the large results

Of force that would have forged a name.