  He never could grow old, for gay Romance Walks with him daily through our crowded ways, Illumining each common circumstance, And rearing splendid dreams about his days. Whether he walks or rides, it is the same, He is the grey-haired knight, his cane for lance, On some adventure for a lady's name, With fancied kings and queens for confidants. Folk that he meets—woman or man or boy— All play a rÔle in some forgotten place: His carriage is a chariot at Troy, And somewhere, at the end, is Helen's face ... I like to wonder, when he looks at me, What glorious thing, that instant, I may be. |
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