When, drunk with love, with rapturous bliss replete.

On bended knees, in silence at your feet,

I looked on you and thought: you are mine own,—

You know, my sweet, if I sought glory’s crown:

You know: far from the fickle world of fame.

And weary of a poet’s futile name,

Exhausted by long storms, I paid no heed

To buzz of distant blame, or praise indeed.

Could rumours or rebukes disturb my ways

When, bending on me your tormenting gaze,

Your hand upon my head you gently laid,

And whispered. “Say you love me, you are glad?

You’ll love no other, say, and true you’ll be?

You’ll never, dear, forget that you love me?”

But I, constrained to silence, answered nought,—

My soul with joy was overwhelmed, I thought,

It will not come, that dreadful parting day.

No, never And what then? Hot tears, dismay,

Betrayal, slander,—all upon my head

Fell sudden down … What? Where? I stood as dead,

A traveller lightning-struck, lost in the waste,

With everything before me overcast.

But now, a strange new wish sets me aflame;

I yearn for glory, merely that my name

Each hour may strike upon your ear, its sound

Encompass vou with noisy fame all round,

And all, yes all about you echo me.

That to my true voice listening silently,

You may remember what was my last prayer

Within your bower, the night we parted there.