O Love! of all the riches that are mine,
What gift have I withheld before thy shrine?
What tender ecstasy of prayer and praise
Or lyric flower of my impassioned days?
What poignant dream have I denied to thee
Of secret hope, desire and memory;
Or intimate anguish of sad years, long dead,
Old griefs unstaunched, old fears uncomforted?
What radiant prophecies that thrill and throng
The unborn years with swift delight of song?
O Love! of all the treasures that I own,
What gift have I withheld before thy throne?