From W.H. Auden's The Age Of Anxiety

Yet the noble despair of the poets
Is nothing of the sort; it is silly
To refuse the tasks of time
And, overlooking our lives,
Cry - "Miserable wicked me,
How interesting I am."
We would rather be ruined than changed,
We would rather die in dread
Than climb the cross of the moment
And let our illusions die.