A Lover's Confession

When people tell me they have loved          But once in youth,     I wonder, are they always moved          To speak the truth?     Not that they wilfully deceive:          They fondly cherish     A constancy which they would grieve          To think might perish.     They cherish it until they think          'Twas always theirs.     So, if the truth they sometimes blink,          'Tis unawares.     Yet unawares, I must profess,          They do deceive     Themselves, and those who questionless          Their tale believe.     For I have loved, I freely own,          A score of times,     And woven, out of love alone,          A hundred rhymes.     Boys will be fickle.    Yet, when all          Is said and done,     I was not one whom you could call          A flirt--not one     Of those who into three or four          Their hearts divide.     My queens came singly to the door,          Not side by side.     Each, while she reigned, possessed alone          My spirit loyal,     Then left an undisputed throne          To one more royal,     To one more fair in form and face          Sweeter and stronger,     Who filled the throne with truer grace,          And filled it longer.     So, love by love, they came and passed,          These loves of mine,     And each one brighter than the last          Their lights did shine.     Until--but am I not too free,          Most courteous stranger,     With secrets which belong to me?          There is a danger.     Until, I say, the perfect love,          The last, the best,     Like flame descending from above,          Kindled my breast,     Kindled my breast like ardent flame,          With quenchless glow.     I knew not love until it came,          But now I know.     You smile.    The twenty loves before          Were each in turn,     You say, the final flame that o'er          My soul should burn.     Smile on, my friend.    I will not say          You have no reason;     But if the love I feel to-day          Depart, 'tis treason!     If this depart, not once again          Will I on paper     Declare the loves that waste and wane,          Like some poor taper.     No, no!    This flame, I cannot doubt,          Despite your laughter,     Will burn till Death shall put it out,          And may be after.