Sonnet VIII

What can I give thee back, O liberal

And princely giver, who hast brought the gold

And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,

And laid them on the outside of the-wall

For such as I to take or leave withal,

In unexpected largesse ? am I cold,

Ungrateful, that for these most manifold

High gifts, I render nothing back at all ?

Not so; not cold,–but very poor instead.

Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run

The colors from my life, and left so dead

And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done

To give the same as pillow to thy head.

Go farther ! let it serve to trample on.

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