 | Poems |  |
173
[XXVII.
Like the fair sea that laves Italia's strand]
“My mind's the same
It ever was to you. Where I find worth
I love the keeper, till he let it go,
And then I follow it.”—
Old Play.
It ever was to you. Where I find worth
I love the keeper, till he let it go,
And then I follow it.”—
Old Play.
Like the fair sea that laves Italia's strand,
Affection's flood is tideless in my breast;
No ebb withdraws it from the chosen land,
Havened too richly for enamored quest:
Thus am I faithful to the vanished grace
Embodied once in thy sweet form and name,
And though love's charm no more illumes thy face,
In memory's realm her olden pledge I claim.
It is not constancy to haunt a shrine
From which devotion's lingering spark has fled;
Insensate homage only wreaths can twine
Around the pulseless temples of the dead:
Thou from thy better self hast madly flown,
While to that self allegiance still I own.
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