Love's Calendar; or, Eros and Anteros - Part 3
She loves — but 'tis not me she loves: —
Not me on whom she ponders,
When in some dream of tenderness
Her truant fancy wanders.
The forms that flit her visions through
Are like the shapes of old,
Where tales of Prince and Paladin
On tapestry are told.
Man may not hope her heart to win,
Be his of common mould!
But I — though spurs are won no more
Where herald's trump is pealing,
Nor thrones carved out for lady fair
Where steel-clad ranks are wheeling —
I loose the falcon of my hopes
Upon as proud a flight
As they who hawk'd at high renown,
In song-ennobled fight.
If daring then true love may crown,
My love she must requite!
Not me on whom she ponders,
When in some dream of tenderness
Her truant fancy wanders.
The forms that flit her visions through
Are like the shapes of old,
Where tales of Prince and Paladin
On tapestry are told.
Man may not hope her heart to win,
Be his of common mould!
But I — though spurs are won no more
Where herald's trump is pealing,
Nor thrones carved out for lady fair
Where steel-clad ranks are wheeling —
I loose the falcon of my hopes
Upon as proud a flight
As they who hawk'd at high renown,
In song-ennobled fight.
If daring then true love may crown,
My love she must requite!
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