I, who of lighter love wrote many a verse,
Made public never words inspired by thee,
Lest strangers’ lips should carelessly rehearse
Things that were sacred and too dear to me.
Thy soul was noble; through these fifteen years
Mine eyes familiar, found no fleck nor flaw,
Stern to thyself, thy comrades’ faults and fears
Proved generously thine only law.
Small joy was I to thee; before we met
Sorrow had left thee all too sad to save.
Useless my love — as vain as this regret
That pours my hopeless life across thy grave.