HE FEARS HIS GOOD FORTUNE

There was a glorious time At an epoch of my prime; Mornings beryl-bespread, And evenings golden-red; Nothing gray: And in my heart I said, “However this chanced to be, It is too full for me, Too rare, too rapturous, rash, Its spell must close with a crash Some day!”

The radiance went on Anon and yet anon, And sweetness fell around Like manna on the ground. “I’ve no claim,” Said I, “to be thus crowned: I am not worthy this:— Must it not go amiss?— Well . . . let the end foreseen Come duly!—I am serene.” —And it came.