VIII
Reading edition
SOMETHING did tell my soul, though not thy troth, That I might find in love life’s pleasant morning, Like lovely maid, some flowery grove adorning, Just as in verse imagination doth. The thought I treasured in me, nothing loth, Yet never dreamed that I should find Love scorning That which I gave; to spurn it without warning, And crush the flower as lightly as a moth. May I not yet with gratitude this pen Now dedicate to love, thus born again, Out of thy breast, and seemingly to stay? Thou fair divinity, adored of men, To death I must consign my banished pain, And find in thee the fulness of to-day!