No wish for human love was mine:
I heard the hooded vestals sing
The praises of their Love Divine.
The village maids with rival glee,
Flower-filleting their unclipt hair,
Sang thus, “The meadow flowers are we”:
I thought the convent flowers more fair.
Yet false I am not. Still I climb
Through love to realms this earth above:
And those whom most I loved that time