名人诗歌|A Woman Homer Sung

When I was young，

I thought， He holds her dear，

And shook with hate and fear.

But O！ twas bitter wrong

If he could pass her by

With an indifferent eye.

Whereon I wrote and wrought^1，

And now， being grey，

I dream that I have brought

To such a pitch my thought

That coming time can say，

He shadowed in a glass

What thing her body was.

For she had fiery^{2 blood}

When I was young，

And trod so sweetly proud

As twere upon a cloud，

A woman Homer sung，

That life and letters seem

But an heroic dream.