Chapter LV: Treasure

Not mine the silver ride of the redeemer, Not mine the secret vision of the saint, Not mine the martyrdoms of Truth's dark dreamer Nor bitter beatitudes of Art. O quaint Undoing of youth's horoscope! No splendours Nor laurels, nor wisdom in a myrrhine bowl! Here is the treasure that the past surrenders, A spoil of roses coffered in the soul,-- Much like another woman's! Rare perfumes And cleaving thorns, faded pathetic store Of kisses and sighs, would those heroic dooms I craved of old have yet enriched me more? I have not dwelt in Galilee nor Tyre Nor Athens. But I have my heart's desire.