LXXV

So dainty white my lady's fancies are
That mine but sully her most abject thought;
So pure and holy that my best are nought
But sullen shadows to a thing more fair.
Often I climb to reach that region rare,
Where soars her soul; and faithfully have wrought
To mould myself upon the look I caught,
But quit the task in self-confessed despair.
Surely some gleam of her celestial light
May pierce the crust of my too earthen mould,
And make my fiery nature virgin cold.
If not today, tomorrow or next night,
Or long years hence; or when my straining sight
Looks through the grave and sees heaven's way unfold.