How had it been, my beloved,
Had Fate united us sooner, —
In the bright days when our hearts
First dreamed of loving? —

When, a thrice exquisite vision,
Hope, all her lute-strings unbroken,
Smilingly beckoned us on,
Wooed us to follow? —

When our youth, eager, expectant, —
Trusting the north as the south wind,
Hardly, its pulses a-throb,
Staid life's unfolding?

Had I been more to you, dearer,
Bearing my myrtle and roses,
Than, as I came, crowned with rue,
Weighted with sorrow,

Seeing both light and its shadow,
Taught both of truth and illusion,
Knowing earth's rapture and pain, —
Sharing earth's travail?

More had I been to you — dearer?...
Deep in my heart a voice answers,
Healing the sense of unworth,
Whispering comfort: —

" Love takes no counsel of prudence;
Wherefore men, timid and doubting,
Marvelling oft at his choice,
Charge him with blindness;

" But — this believe! — not Apollo,
Clothed in his glory celestial,
Bears such a light in his breast
As that which Eros

" Holds in the heart of his darkness,
Guards as a torch never failing,
Given to guide him where waits
His sole desire!"