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.
