I Was Not He

         I was not he—the man
Who used to pilgrim to your gate,
At whose smart step you grew elate,
         And rosed, as maidens can,
            For a brief span.

         It was not I who sang
Beside the keys you touched so true
With note-bent eyes, as if with you
         It counted not whence sprang
            The voice that rang . . .

         Yet though my destiny
It was to miss your early sweet,
You still, when turned to you my feet,
         Had sweet enough to be
            A prize for me!