When I was young，

    I thought， ‘He holds her dear，’

    And shook with hate and fear.

    But O！ ‘twas bitter wrong

    If he could pass her by

    With an indifferent eye.

    Whereon I wrote and wrought¹，

    And now， being grey，

    I dream that I have brought

    To such a pitch my thought

    That coming time can say，

    ‘He shadowed in a glass

    What thing her body was.‘

    For she had fiery² blood

    When I was young，

    And trod so sweetly proud

    As ‘twere upon a cloud，

    A woman Homer sung，

    That life and letters seem

    But an heroic dream.