Poetry Archives

I did not choose thee, dearest. It was Love
That made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blind
As a rude shepherd’s who to some lone grove
His offering brings and cares not at what shrine
He bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine;
The rest was Love’s. He took me by the hand,
And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine,
And spoke the words I might not understand.
  I was unwise in all but the dear chance
Which was my fortune, and the blind desire
Which led my foolish steps to Love’s abode,
And youth’s sublime unreason’d prescience
Which raised an altar and inscribed in fire
Its dedication To the Unknown God.