The Shrine

Were I but as the master souls who move
In their high place, immortal on the earth,
My song might be a thing to crown her worth,--
‘Tis but a pathway for the feet of Love.

But since she walks where I am fain to sing,
Since she has said, “I listen, O my friend!”
There is a glory lent the song I send,
And I am proud, yes, prouder than a king.

I grow to nobler use beneath her eyes--
Eyes that smile on me so serenely, will
They smile a welcome though my best hope dies,

And greet me at the summit of the hill?
Will she, for whom my heart has built a shrine,
Take from me all that makes this world divine?