WHY, thou being changeless, changeful did I write,
Trusting thy truth, yet doubting thy defect,
Now all-triumphant, now confounded quite,
Sad-suited all, or proud in purple deck’d?
Did I not write of thy rare constancy,
Wherein was none like thee, thou like to none;
Swear that thy heart within my heart did lie
Past all removal till the world were done?
E’en so; but though, when clouds the region hold,
Masking with envious murk the sun’s bright face,
Our o’ergloom’d spirits shudder ’neath the cold,
He merits not the blame of that disgrace:
Himself is still the same, still warm, still bright,
Though clouds between hide both the warmth and light.