XV
Each that we lose takes part of us;
A crescent still abides,
Which like the moon, some turbid night,
Is summoned by the tides.
XVI
Not any higher stands the grave
For heroes than for men;
Not any nearer for the child
Than numb three-score and ten.
This latest leisure equal lulls
The beggar and his queen;
Propitiate this democrat
By summer’s gracious mien.