PROEM.
I wonder, little book, if after all
I greatly care whether with praise or blame
Men turn your leaves. Once, the fair hope of fame
Had made me wonder what fate should befall
My first faint singing; now I cannot call
The singing mine; I gave it him who came
To place my joy where no harsh touch can maim
Its safe, secure, bright beauty. Like a wall
Of strong defence to me this blessedness:
That of his love I am so proudly sure,
Though the whole world should bend to my success,
I think he could not love me any more!
And though the whole world say my book is poor,
I know he will not love me any less!