There was a glorious time
At an epoch of my prime;
Mornings beryl-bespread,
And evenings golden-red;
        Nothing gray:
And in my heart I said,
"However this chanced to be,
It is too full for me,
Too rare, too rapturous, rash,
Its spell must close with a crash
        Some day!"

The radiance went on
Anon and yet anon,
And sweetness fell around
Like manna on the ground.
        "I've no claim,"
Said I, "to be thus crowned:
I am not worthy this:-
Must it not go amiss? -
Well . . . let the end foreseen
Come duly!—I am serene."
         —And it came.