Am I failing? For no longer can I cast A glory round about this head of gold. Glory she wears, but springing from the mould; Not like the consecration of the Past! Is my soul beggared? Something more than earth I cry for still: I cannot be at peace In having Love upon a mortal lease. I cannot take the woman at her worth! Where is the ancient wealth wherewith I clothed Our human nakedness, and could endow With spiritual splendour a white brow That else had grinned at me the fact I loathed? A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave Of a great flood that whirls me to the sea. But, as you will! we’ll sit contentedly, And eat our pot of honey on the grave.
This poem is in the public domain.