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Poem by Coventry Patmore
I walk, I trust, with open eyes; I've travelled half my worldly course; And in the way behind me lies Much vanity and some remorse; I've lived to feel how pride may part Spirits, tho' matched like hand and glove; I've blushed for love's abode, the heart; But have not disbelieved in love; Nor unto love, sole mortal thing Or worth immortal, done the wrong To count it, with the rest that sing, Unworthy of a serious song; And love is my reward: for now, When most of dead'ning time complain, The myrtle blooms upon my brow, Its odour quickens all my brain.
Coventry Patmore's other poems:
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