I cannot love thee as I ought, For love reflects the thing beloved; My words are only words, and moved Upon the topmost froth of thought.
‘Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song,’ The Spirit of true love replied; ‘Thou canst not move me from thy side, Nor human frailty do me wrong.
‘What keeps a spirit wholly true To that ideal which he bears? What record? not the sinless years That breathed beneath the Syrian blue;
‘So fret not, like an idle girl, That life is dash’d with flecks of sin. Abide: thy wealth is gathered in, When Time hath sunder’d shell from pearl.’