III
For there were nights … my love to him whose browHas glistened with the spoils of nights like those,Home turning as a conqueror turns home,What time green dawn down every street uprearsArches of triumph! He has drained as wellJoy’s perfumed bowl and cried as I have cried:Be Fame their mistress whom Love passes by.This only matters: from some flowery bed,Laden with sweetness like a homing bee,If one have known what bliss it is to come,Bearing on hands and breast and laughing lipsThe fragrance of his youth’s dear rose. To himThe hills have bared their treasure, the far cloudsUnveiled the vision that o’er summer seasDrew on his thirsting arms. This last thing known,He can court danger, laugh at perilous odds,And, pillowed on a memory so sweet,Unto oblivious eternityWithout regret yield his victorious soul,The blessed pilgrim of a vow fulfilled.