For her, for her, her ever, her alone!
And yet the bounteous earth how manifold!
What boundless store her teeming confines hold!
Deeds ripe for doing, marvels yet unknown
Ready for birth — what wealth of hue and tone
Engulfed in idle gloom like undigged gold,
Joy for the loving, glory for the bold —
Undared, untasted — O my own, my own!

What have I given? What did I receive?
A heart that faith has served, and yet will serve;
A heart that honour honours, and will yet
Though all the lights that glimmer and deceive,
Yes, though the brightest of them all be set,
To one fixed point be turned, nor change, nor swerve.