At last I put off love,

   For twice ten years

The daysman of my thought,

   And hope, and doing;

Being ashamed thereof,

   And faint of fears

And desolations, wrought

In his pursuing,

Since first in youthtime those

   Disquietings

That heart-enslavement brings

   To hale and hoary,

Became my housefellows,

   And, fool and blind,

I turned from kith and kind

   To give him glory.

I was as children be

   Who have no care;

I did not shrink or sigh,

   I did not sicken;

But lo, Love beckoned me,

   And I was bare,

And poor, and starved, and dry,

   And fever-stricken.

Too many times ablaze

   With fatuous fires,

Enkindled by his wiles

   To new embraces,

Did I, by wilful ways

   And baseless ires,

Return the anxious smiles

   Of friendly faces.

No more will now rate I

   The common rare,

The midnight drizzle dew,

   The gray hour golden,

The wind a yearning cry,

   The faulty fair,

Things dreamt, of comelier hue

   Than things beholden! . . .

—I speak as one who plumbs

   Life’s dim profound,

One who at length can sound

   Clear views and certain.

But—after love what comes?

   A scene that lours,

A few sad vacant hours,

   And then, the Curtain.

1883.