O LOVE, whom I in early dreams have seen,
White hovering over every human thing,
Where is the temple rivalling the sheen
That snow-topped mountains to the morning fling?
Where is thy altar with the roseate flame,
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All garlanded with flowers like the spring,
Where my young spirit with its glories came,
The star-gemmed dews of budding thought to bring?
O love! the offerings of those boyish days
Were laid in burning reverence on thy shrine,
But could I now collect the scattered rays,
And in a single star their light combine,
That star could never guide me to believe;
Nor would thy temple tempt me from my gloom,
Though fairer than the silvery clouds of eve,
Swept by the golden garments of the moon.
W.
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