The Least Possible
DEAR goddess of the shining shrine
Where all my votive tapers burn,
Where every gold-embroidered thought
And all my flowers of life are brought
—With many, alas! that are not mine—
What will you give me in return?
The bow in Bond Street—in the Park
The smile all worship on your lips,
The courteous word at dinner—dance—
But never a blush—a conscious glance;
At most, at Henley, in the dark,
Your fleet mistaken finger-tips?
Ah, just for once, once only, be
An altar-server—stoop and set me
Upon the altar richly wrought
Of your most secret flower-sweet thought:
One nightlight’s flicker burn for me
Before you sleep and quite forget me.
