THE SHRINE

Were I but as the master souls who move

In their high place, immortal on the earth,

My song might be a thing to crown her worth,—

‘ Tis but a pathway for the feet of Love.

But since she walks where I am fain to sing,

Since she has said, “I listen, O my friend!”

There is a glory lent the song I send,

And I am proud, yes, prouder than a king.

I grow to nobler use beneath her eyes —

Eyes that smile on me so serenely, will

They smile a welcome though my best hope dies,

And greet me at the summit of the hill?

Will she, for whom my heart has built a shrine,

Take from me all that makes this world divine?