Of thine, my stronghold should imprison me?
Surely thou art content. No dream of thine
For mockery, because I loved thee not,
Could have matched bitterness with this, this spell
That holds me fast in answer to my prayer.
Then crown thy lyre, if thou wilt so,
With my unwilling leaves. And let them be
Symbol to men, of triumph; nay, but hear;
To thee, memorial that I whisper now:
The eternal thing thou shall not overtake,