A Lover's Litanies

by Eric Mackay

iv.

To die for thee were more than my desert;
To live for thee to keep thee out of hurt
And, like a slave, to wait upon thy will
Were more than fame. And lo! I nourish still
A sense of calm to feel that thou, at least,
Art sorrow-free and honor'd at the feast
Which Nature spreads for all contented minds;
And that for thee its splendours have increased.