| O thought, fly to her when the end of day |
| Awakens an old memory, and say, |
| ‘Your strength, that is so
lofty and fierce and kind, |
| It might call up a new age, calling to mind |
| The queens that were imagined long
ago, |
| Is but half yours: he kneaded in the dough |
| Through the long years of youth, and who would have
thought |
| It all, and more than it all, would come to naught, |
| And that dear words meant nothing?’ But
enough, |
| For when we have blamed the wind we can blame love; |
| Or, if there needs be more, be nothing
said |
| That would be harsh for children that have strayed. |