Of all you seemed when love was bringing
Me to the shrine of your adolatry.
Ah! If the years and gods were but content
To hold fame’s trophy from my reaching hand
And give instead, the meed which heaven meant
Should crown each woman’s life in every land.
If the dead past would but one hour deign
A lonely pilgrim travelling byways rough,
An hour when love and peace would ever reign—
That hour indeed were happiness enough.