Chapter LXXVII: "What hope is here for modern rhyme?"

Looking at what has already happened,

"These mortal lullabies of pain,"

may bind a book, or line a box, or be used by some girl for curl papers; or before a century has passed, they may be found on a stall, telling of

"A grief--then changed to something else,
Sung by a long forgotten mind."

Nevertheless, these considerations shall not deter the Poet--

"But what of that? My darken'd ways
Shall ring with music all the same;
To breathe my loss is more than fame,
To utter love more sweet than praise."