When did I ever deny, though this was fleeting,
That this was love? When did I ever, I say,
With iron thumbs put out the eyes of the day
In this cold world where charity lies bleating
Under a thorn, and none to give him greeting,
And all that lights endeavour on its way
Is the teased lamp of loving, the torn ray
Of the least kind, the most clandestine meeting?
As God's my judge, I do cry holy, holy,
Upon the name of love however brief,
For want of whose ill-trimmed, aspiring wick
More days than oe i have gone forward slowly
In utter dark, scuffling the drifted leaf,
Tapping the road before me with a stick.