Just now I said     

       One thing I knew, that I had never trod     

       The quiet vale where grows the flower of white.     

       'Twas false. Four years I've lived and wandered     

       there     

       And seen my flower, but feared to break its stem.     

       Dear God, thou knowest how often I have prayed     

       That this temptation might not make me fall—     

       Yea, I have asked for death's deliverance.     

       Is this thy answer, that it is no sin     

       For men to gather that which most they love?     

       So be it. Silence answers every prayer;     

       Thy voice hath spoken—I am satisfied.     

  

       Men say in Florence, while I watched her face,     

       That I bewitched her, so her very eyes     

       Grew in expression like unto my own,     

       So that her hands took on my restless ways,     

       So that her mouth hath altered in its smile     

       And, when I paint her face, I paint my own.     

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