116
THE TROUBADOUR.
There is a feeling in the heart
Of woman which can have no part
In man; a self devotedness,
As victims round their idols press,
And asking nothing, but to show
How far their zeal and faith can go.
Pure as the snow the summer sun
Never at noon hath look'd upon,—
Deep as is the diamond wave,
Hidden in the desart cave,—
Changeless as the greenest leaves
Of the wreath the cypress weaves,—
Hopeless often when most fond,
Without hope or fear beyond
Its own pale fidelity,—
And this woman's love can be!
