That is my joy, my glory, my one pride.
I'll ne'er repent it until I repent
That e'er I smiled or felt myself alive.
Repent? Nay, father, not till I believe
That marble women are more dear to God
Than we whose hearts are warm with the same love
That beat in His when worlds leapt from His joy.
Come back, O golden summer, when there dwelt
Two happy beings in a magic wood,
Treading not earth but soft enchantment's air,