If any man drew near

When I was young,

I thought, “He holds her dear,”

And shook with hate and fear.

But oh, ’twas bitter wrong

If he could pass her by

With an indifferent eye.

Whereon I wrote and wrought,

And now, being gray,

I dream that I have brought

To such a pitch my thought

That coming time can say,

“He shadowed in a glass

What thing her body was.”

For she had fiery blood

When I was young,

And trod so sweetly proud

As ’twere upon a cloud,

A woman Homer sung,

That life and letters seem

But an heroic dream.