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There shall come, quick, a time (e’en it is now)

when my words pale before much better ones.

If that should be (forsooth, to it I bow),

cling not to these, but for what better comes.

And if thou shouldst these stanzas hold again,

read on. But not for better than what’s new.

Read for the love they held for mortal men

and for the hopes they had and thought were true.

Such is the worth of any word I write,

not that it holds much salt, but holds much love.

May no man be remembered for his sight,

but what he wished to see, and thought most of.

Boast not, if boast you must, in what’s been said,

but where, God-willing, dying words have led.

~~~

I want not but the comfort of your gaze,

the warmth of your eyes when they are on me.

Whatever comes beyond that fiery blaze

would be more than my mortal eyes could see.

For my eyes are not used to such a flame.

The Sun itself has not burned half as bright.

But I would not now shade, nor try to tame

whatever wills the sheerness of your light.

So blind me—let me look as you look on,

and make my eyes as useless as at night;

and let their ling’ring image ere they’re gone

be yours—the eyes that sanctified their sight.

And whatever you do thence will be fine,

for yours, the sweetest of all eyes, were mine.