How can you yield your hand to common touch
When I set worship on each finger-tip?
Yet must I love you — love you overmuch,
Though each abasement sting me like a whip.
This was my failing, that I raised too high
An altar for your pride to walk upon.
You would go earthly, heedless of the sky, —
And I would drag you to Hyperion.

Oh I had much to give beside the flesh!
Much of an unused wonder and emprise;
Now I lie strengthless in a golden mesh
(The stark, unbattled glamour of your eyes)
Wherein my gods are lost as in a gloom
And there is no escape, except in doom.