O

As some small bird is wounded in the wing,

Avert thy scorn, and grant me, from afar,

At least the right to love thee as a star,—

The right to turn to thee, the right to bow

To thy pure name and evermore, as now,

To own thy thraldom and to sing thereon,

In proud allegiance to mine earliest vow.

xiv.

[32] 

[32]

It were abuse of power to frown again

I

I

I

When, all day long, I gloat upon the pain

Of pent-up hope, my joy and my distress,—

While the remembrance of a mute caress

Given to a rose,—a rose I pluck'd for thee,—

Seems as the withering of the world to me,

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