Sweet, in the golden morning of my days,
With young tempestuous joy I reared my head
To gaze adown the splendid sunlit ways
Where all the fires of fame burned glory red,
I recked not where the sounding arches led,
Save at the end I gain my august bays.
But as of old, when through the patient night,
Fair losing or fair gaining, till the morn,
Great Israel strove to break the angel's might,
Till spent and failing, in his heavenly scorn,
Th’ immortal wrestler touched the earthly born,
Striking him powerless, winning thus the fight.
So did false Fortune, when I strove and fought,
Smiling‘ neath half-closed eyelids, when seemed won,
For a brief hour, the beckoning goal I sought —
Then with frustrating touch dimmed all my sun
Blotted the work and faith so brave begun;
But what I gained was none too dearly bought.
I have no wreath to lay before your feet;
There shines no future, and the past is dead;
But you have heard me, and I love you — Sweet.
The low sun crowns with gold your gracious head,
The heavy lilies nod upon their bed —
I look at you, and find my life complete.