I am so poor, I cannot pour the gold

Of virgin gleaming love before your feet,

Timid, ablush with hope, I may not greet

Your loveliness with raptures never told.

I am not young nor middle-aged nor old,

But in me now all ages seem to meet,

And mingled Youth with Eld perchance complete

A tranquil lover, nor passionate nor cold . . .

Such was my mood before I met your eyes

Or saw you smile, your red lips delicate

With youthfulness, before your tender mouth

Had voiced the knell of my long loveless state,

Bidding my frozen soul awake and rise

Beneath Love's warm and fragrant spicy South.