Sonnet Lvii:

Although the story of our love be lost In the long vista of the coming years,-- All its fair smiles, its crosses and its tears, And the hard trial and remorseless cost At which we bought the priceless thing, be tossed As dust amidst the world's new hopes and fears: Yet we can fancy what a crowd of peers Are ours amongst the long-departed host. Like a forgotten king, we wore our crown Of splendid passion through this span of life. Yea, life was ours; the glory of the strife, And the proud triumph, and the day's renown! What matter if its memory be not rife, After dark centuries have settled down!