Thine were the weak, slight hands
That might have taken this strong soul, and bent
Its stubborn substance to thy soft intent,
And bound it unresisting, with such bands
As not the arm of envious heaven had rent.
Thine were the calming eyes
That round my pinnace could have stilled the sea,
And drawn thy voyager home, and bid him be
Pure with their pureness, with their wisdom wise,
Merged in their light, and greatly lost in thee.
But thou–thou passed’st on,
With whiteness clothed of dedicated days,
Cold, like a star; and me in alien ways
Thou leftest following life’s chance lure, where shone
The wandering gleam that beckons and betrays.