There was a glorious time

At an epoch of my prime;

Mornings beryl-bespread,

And evenings golden-red;

   Nothing gray:

And in my heart I said,

“However this chanced to be,

It is too full for me,

Too rare, too rapturous, rash,

Its spell must close with a crash

   Some day!”

The radiance went on

Anon and yet anon,

And sweetness fell around

Like manna on the ground.

   “I’ve no claim,”

Said I, “to be thus crowned:

I am not worthy this:—

Must it not go amiss?—

Well . . . let the end foreseen

Come duly!—I am serene.”

   —And it came.