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 Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-woman-s-sonnets-iii/
