Dear Heart, I think the young impassioned priest

When first he takes from out the hidden shrine

His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,

And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine,

Feels not such awful wonder as I felt

When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee,

And all night long before thy feet I knelt

Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.

Ah! hadst thou liked me less and loved me more,

Through all those summer days of joy and rain,

I had not now been sorrow’s heritor,

Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.

Yet, though remorse, youth’s white-faced seneschal,

Tread on my heels with all his retinue,

I am most glad I loved thee—think of all

The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!