O thought， fly to her when the end of day

    Awakens an old memory， and say，

    ‘Your strength， that is so lofty and fierce and kind，

    It might call up a new age， calling to mind

    The queens that were imagined long ago，

    Is but half yours： he kneaded in the dough

    Through the long years of youth， and who would have thought

    It all， and more than it all， would come to naught，

    And that dear words meant nothing？‘ But enough，

    For when we have blamed the wind we can blame love；

    Or， if there needs be more， be nothing said

    That would be harsh for children that have strayed.