Page:Troubadour.pdf/120

116

There is a feeling in the heart Of woman which can have no part In man; a self devotedness, As victims round their idols press, And asking nothing, but to show How far their zeal and faith can go. Pure as the snow the summer sun Never at noon hath look'd upon,— Deep as is the diamond wave, Hidden in the desart cave,— Changeless as the greenest leaves Of the wreath the cypress weaves,— Hopeless often when most fond, Without hope or fear beyond Its own pale fidelity,— And this woman's love can be!