XXVIII

Not you, nor all the gauds that Fate bestows,

Can make me swerve so little from my dream.

Across my veil of mystery you seem

Perhaps a little dearer than the rose,

Perhaps more fair than the long light that flows

Between the lids of twilight. But the gleam

Of iris on the breast of wisdom's stream

Is of a radiance that no rival knows.

My heart is not my heart, or it might chance

To sorrow for the sorrow in your tears;

My soul is locked against all circumstance

Of life or love or death or heaven or hell;

I have no place for laughter in my years,

No room where little, little love might dwell.