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.