I WOULD not stop you on your way;
I would not bind your feet;
Or on your shining forehead lay
One shadow of defeat.
Go forward — if you turn, the crowd
Might trample you with me.
Let the flute-players play more loud
And the dancers dance more free I
But once before the palace gate
Rolls back and I'm bereft —
Turn and look on me; and if fate
Has any pity left,
A passing mist upon your eyes
Will redeem every sacrifice.