THE LEAST POSSIBLE.

DEAR goddess of the shining shrine

Where all my votive tapers burn,

Where every gold-embroidered thought

And all my flowers of life are brought

— With many, alas! that are not mine —

What will you give me in return?

The bow in Bond Street — in the Park

The smile all worship on your lips,

The courteous word at dinner — dance —

But never a blush — a conscious glance;

At most, at Henley, in the dark,

Your fleet mistaken finger-tips?

Ah, just for once, once only, be

An altar-server — stoop and set me

Upon the altar richly wrought

Of your most secret flower-sweet thought:

One nightlight's flicker burn for me

Before you sleep and quite forget me.