I walk, I trust, with open eyes; 
I've travelled half my worldly course; 
And in the way behind me lies 
Much vanity and some remorse; 
I've lived to feel how pride may part 
Spirits, tho' matched like hand and glove; 
I've blushed for love's abode, the heart; 
But have not disbelieved in love; 
Nor unto love, sole mortal thing 
Or worth immortal, done the wrong 
To count it, with the rest that sing, 
Unworthy of a serious song; 
And love is my reward: for now, 
When most of dead'ning time complain, 
The myrtle blooms upon my brow, 
Its odour quickens all my brain.