Fragment III

For there were nights . . . my love to him whose brow     Has glistened with the spoils of nights like those,     Home turning as a conqueror turns home,     What time green dawn down every street uprears     Arches of triumph! He has drained as well     Joy's perfumed bowl and cried as I have cried:     Be Fame their mistress whom Love passes by.     This only matters: from some flowery bed,     Laden with sweetness like a homing bee,     If one have known what bliss it is to come,     Bearing on hands and breast and laughing lips     The fragrance of his youth's dear rose. To him     The hills have bared their treasure, the far clouds     Unveiled the vision that o'er summer seas     Drew on his thirsting arms. This last thing known,     He can court danger, laugh at perilous odds,     And, pillowed on a memory so sweet,     Unto oblivious eternity     Without regret yield his victorious soul,     The blessed pilgrim of a vow fulfilled.