IS it thy will that I should wax and wane,Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,And at thy pleasure weave that web of painWhose brightest threads are each a wasted day?Is it thy will That my Soul's House should be a tortured spotWherein, like evil paramours, must dwellThe quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,And sell ambition at the common mart,And let dull failure be my vestiture,And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.Perchance it may be better so I have not made my heart a heart of stone,Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.Many a man hath done so; sought to fenceIn straitened bonds the soul that should be free,Trodden the dusty road of common sense,While all the forest sang of liberty,Not marking how the spotted hawk in flightPassed on wide pinion through the lofty air,To where the steep untrodden mountain heightCaught the last tresses of the Sun God¹s hair.Or how the little flower he trod upon,The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sunContent if once its leaves were aureoled.But surely it is something to have beenThe best belovèd for a little while,To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seenHis purple wings flit once across thy smile.Ay! though the gorgèd asp of passion feedOn my boy's heart, yet have I burst the bars,Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeedThe Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!