Where is the pride for which I once was blamed,
My vanity which held its head so high?
Who would believe them, seeing me thus tamed,
Thus subject, here as at thy feet I lie,
Pleading for love which now is all my life,
Craving a word for memory's rage to keep,
Asking a sign to still my inward strife,
Petitioning a touch to soothe my sleep?
Who would now guess them, as I kiss the ground
On which the feet of him I love have trod,
And bow before his voice whose least sweet sound
Speaks louder to me than the voice of God;
And knowing all the while that one dark day,
Spite of my worship, thou wilt turn away?
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
