Not mine the silver ride of the redeemer,
Not mine the secret vision of the saint,
Not mine the martyrdoms of Truth's dark dreamer
Nor bitter beatitudes of Art. O quaint
Undoing of youth's horoscope! No splendours
Nor laurels, nor wisdom in a myrrhine bowl!
Here is the treasure that the past surrenders,
A spoil of roses coffered in the soul,--
Much like another woman's! Rare perfumes
And cleaving thorns, faded pathetic store
Of kisses and sighs, would those heroic dooms
I craved of old have yet enriched me more?
I have not dwelt in Galilee nor Tyre
Nor Athens. But I have my heart's desire.