52 THE STRIKING HOUR

As one imprisoned, that hath lain alone And dreamed of sunlight where no vagrant gleam Of sunlight pierces, being freed, must deem This too but dreaming, and must dread the sun Whose glory dazzles;—even as such-an-one Am I, whose longing was but now supreme For this high hour, and, now it strikes, esteem I do but dream long dreamed-of goals are won. Take heed! be still! lest haply God reprove. We have climbed too high! Those note us overhead Who know I am unworthy of your love; And when yet-parted lips, sigh-visited, End speech and wait, mine when I will to move, Such joy awakens that I grow afraid.

Yet I have loved you in so many ways,— With reverence always, and such purity As often curbs that which is base in me; And, though some folly oftentimes betrays My purpose into naught, through all these days Till this day I had striven silently To win at last to what, at least, would be Earth-staggering homage reverberant in your praise. To-day in flight from world-wide dissonance, I storm your heart,—and claim not any fee For any service rendered anywhere, But as one comes to his inheritance Demand admittance, knowing my love to be No whit unworthy even to enter there.

Catullus might have made of words that seek With rippling sound, in soft recurrent ways, The perfect song, or in remoter days Theocritus have hymned you in glad Greek; But I am not as they,—and dare not speak Of you unworthily, and dare not praise Perfection with imperfect roundelays, And desecrate the prize I dare to seek. I do not woo you, then, by fashioning Vext analogues ’twixt you and Guinevere; Nor do I come with agile lips that bring The sugared periods of a sonneteer, And bring no more,—but just with lips that cling To yours, in murmuring, I love you, dear!