Were I but as the master souls who move In their high place, immortal on the earth, My song might be a thing to crown her worth,— ‘Tis but a pathway for the feet of Love.
But since she walks where I am fain to sing, Since she has said, “I listen, O my friend!” There is a glory lent the song I send, And I am proud, yes, prouder than a king.
I grow to nobler use beneath her eyes— Eyes that smile on me so serenely, will They smile a welcome though my best hope dies,
And greet me at the summit of the hill? Will she, for whom my heart has built a shrine, Take from me all that makes this world divine?