Quia Multum Amavi

　　Dear Heart， I think the young impassioned priest

　　When first he takes from out the hidden shrine¹

　　His God imprisoned² in the Eucharist，

　　And eats the bread， and drinks the dreadful wine，

　　Feels not such awful wonder as I felt

　　When first my smitten³ eyes beat full on thee，

　　And all night long before thy feet I knelt

　　Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.

　　Ah！ hadst thou liked me less and loved me more，

　　Through all those summer days of joy and rain，

　　I had not now been sorrow's heritor，

　　Or stood a lackey⁴ in the House of Pain.

　　Yet， though remorse⁵， youth's white-faced seneschal，

　　Tread on my heels with all his retinue⁶，

　　I am most glad I loved thee - think of all

　　The suns that go to make one speedwell blue！