And flying clouds beneath the blue.—
Then I achieved my height of art:
A rosy flush upon her cheek,
Two joyous eyes that seem’d to speak,
A smile whose music filled the heart—
Agnes.
For you, though, all that art was vain,
You drank life’s beaker, blind and rapt,
And then, one sunny morn, again
Stood, staff in hand and baggage strapp’d—