If They Honoured Me, Giving Me Their Gifts

They bring me gifts, they honour me,
Now I am growing old;
And wondering youth crowds round my knee.
As if I had a mystery
And worship to unfold.

To me the tender, blushing bride
Doth come with lips that fail;
I feel her heart beat at my side
And cry: 'Like Ares in his pride.
Hail, noble bridegroom, hail!'

And to the doubting boy, afraid
Of too ambitious bliss,
I whisper: 'None is like thy maid.
And I her fond heart will persuade
To feel thou feelest this!

Or if Persephone should take
From me some maid full dear.
While friends their lamentations make,
I rise, and for the lover's sake
I praise her loud and clear.

Ye bring me gifts, ye honour me
For music and for rhyme;
And if at last my soul sings free,
It is that once I stood, as ye.
Dumb in youth's golden clime.