XL

Envy and calumny and hate and pain,

      And that unrest which men miscall delight,

      Can touch him not and torture not again;

      From the contagion of the world's slow stain

      He is secure, and now can never mourn

      A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain;

      Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn,

With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.