FAME. 
 
 
 IF these words were swords, and I had might 
 From some old prophet in whose tawny hair 
 The very breath of the Jehovah were 
To smite the Syrian, and to smite, and smite, 
And splash the sun’s face with the blood, for spite 
 Of his downgoing, till I had made fair 
 All glories of my master, I could bear 
To sink myself in the abundant night. 
 
O if these words were lightnings, and their flame 
Deluged the world, and drowned the seed of shame 
 In these ill waters where alone Truth’s ark 
 May float, where only lovers may embark, 
I were contented to abandon fame 
 And live with love for ever in the dark. 
 
  O