On my heart's altar when youth's fire burned low,
And the grey ashes of years cold and sage
Made the high flame abate its heavenward rage,
The coals to smoulder and less hotly glow,
Thou camest, fair vestal, in thy robes of snow--
Perhaps through ruth that time should so assuage
The humblest beacon of this dreary age-
And on the embers precious gifts did throw.
Since then, with loving hands, O Priestess pure,
Thy faith hath tended on the sacred fire,
That pays thy care by ever mounting higher:
Youth is rekindled; I again endure
The heat of love; and hope's long silent choir
Sings in my ears the old beguiling lure.