Circe? or Penelope? Neither one for me.
No, nor Helen loved of men I would have you be.
Cleopatra lithe and dark? Juno fair and tall?
Guinevere of Arthur's Court? I would shun them all;
Turn my eager eyes away searching for a face
That laughed in mine just yesterday in a pleasant place.

What have I to do with those glories that are done —
Dreams of dear dead women vanished with the sun?
They have had their loveliness, given love's delight,
Ere their gallant warriors rode into the night.
For I know a Golden Street where one woman more
Waits to greet her singing lad at her open door.

He is not Ulysses, or King of Old Cathay;
He never clashed a shield to shield or heard the arrows spray;
He never swam the Hellespont or dared Medusa's hair,
Or brought a Golden Fleece to weave a carpet for his fair;
But quiet as the evening star, as ardent as the spring,
He'll bring her love of God and Man past all imagining.