I, who of lighter love wrote many a verse,
⁠Made public never words inspired by thee,
Lest strangers' lips should carelessly rehearse
⁠Things that were sacred and too dear to me.

Thy soul was noble; through these fifteen years
⁠Mine eyes familiar, found no fleck nor flaw,
Stern to thyself, thy comrades' faults and fears
⁠Proved generosity thine only law.

Small joy was I to thee; before we met
⁠Sorrow had left thee all too sad to save.
Useless my love—as vain as this regret
⁠That pours my hopeless life across thy grave.