I cannot love thee as I ought,
  For love reflects the thing beloved;
  My words are only words, and moved
Upon the topmost froth of thought.

'Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song,'
  The Spirit of true love replied;
  'Thou canst not move me from thy side,
Nor human frailty do me wrong.

'What keeps a spirit wholly true
  To that ideal which he bears?
  What record? not the sinless years
That breathed beneath the Syrian blue:

'So fret not, like an idle girl,
  That life is dash'd with flecks of sin.
  Abide: thy wealth is gather'd in,
When Time hath sunder'd shell from pearl.'