| If any man drew near |
| When I was young, |
| I thought, ‘He holds her dear,’ |
| And shook with hate and fear. |
| But O! ’twas bitter wrong |
| If he could pass her by |
| With an indifferent eye. |
| Whereon I wrote and wrought, |
| And now, being grey, |
| 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. |