I, Least of All

No man is worthy of her favoring grace,
I, least of all, on whom the gods have laid
A heavy hand; who live with soul afraid,
As one who walks by dark, precipitous ways.
Knowing on either side lie death and space.
Yet in a desperate mood my whole heart prayed
That she by whose least touch my blood is swayed,
Whose soul is as a high and heavenly place,

Would love me, seeing how wholly I was hers.
Behold, she did accept my prayer: even she,
Ringed round by bands of goodly worshippers,
Stept from their midst to sit alone with me
Under the shadow of my dark yew-tree,
Where, parted, still her soul with mine confers.