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O thought, fly to her when the end of da
Awakens an old memory, and say,
“Your strength, that is so lofty and fierce and kin
It might call up a new age, calling to mind
The queens that were imagined long ago
Is but half yours: he kneaded in the dough
Through the long years of youth, and who would have though It all, and more than it all, would come to naught,
And that dear words meant nothing?” But enough,
For when we have blamed the wind we can blame love;
Or, if there needs be more, be nothing said
That would be harsh for children that have strayed