Where is the pride for which I once was blamed, br My vanity which held its head so high? br Who would believe them, seeing me thus tamed, br Thus subject, here as at thy feet I lie, br Pleading for love which now is all my life, br Craving a word for memory's rage to keep, br Asking a sign to still my inward strife, br Petitioning a touch to soothe my sleep? br Who would now guess them, as I kiss the ground br On which the feet of him I love have trod, br And bow before his voice whose least sweet sound br Speaks louder to me than the voice of God; br And knowing all the while that one dark day, br Spite of my worship, thou wilt turn away?br br Wilfrid Scawen Bluntbr br