VIII
SOMETHING did tell my soul, though not thy troth,
That I might find in love life’s pleasant morning,
Like lovely maid, some flowery grove adorning,
Just as in verse imagination doth.
The thought I treasured in me, nothing loth,
Yet never dreamed that I should find Love scorning
That which I gave; to spurn it without warning,
And crush the flower as lightly as a moth.
May I not yet with gratitude this pen
Now dedicate to love, thus born again,
Out of thy breast, and seemingly to stay?
Thou fair divinity, adored of men,
To death I must consign my banished pain,
And find in thee the fulness of to-day!