And long for things their touch could never taint!
My sweet, sweet love!—
But, moving at her side,
Should I be aught?—Alas, I could but seem—
Beside the gilded glory of the stage,
Beside the loud-mouthed suitors of the show,
An unwhipt cur, to wait at some backdoor,
And jar with signalling bark the echo sweet
Of all-the-town’s applause. She mine would be
But as the sun, whose flaming brow has touch’d