XLI
Again, again you ask how you can know
How much I really love you? This to me!
All women I do envy that I see
If they have aught of youth or charm to show,
And wonder, would you like me better so,
If better thus, if thus changed I might be,
Count o’er the years of youth still left to me
Praying: “Dear God, make time go very slow!”
For you I’ve plunged me from calm’s peerless height,
And dwarfed my soul for Envy’s shabby door;
Yet know that I would cry: “Dear God, give more!”
If for the asking I could have to-night
Gold Helens and all dear dead ones’ beauty
Since for your love so little it would be.