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 trodIs dim, or will be dim, with weeds:What fame is left for human deedsIn endless age? It rests with God.
O hollow wraith of dying fame,Fade wholly, while the soul exults,And self-infolds the large resultsOf force that would have forged a name.