Bayard Taylor (1825–1878)

IF I could touch with Petrarch’s pen this strain

Of graver song, and shape to liquid flow

Of soft Italian syllables the glow

That warms my heart, my tribute were not vain;

But how shall I such measured sweetness gain

As may your golden nature fitly show,

And with the heart-light shine, that fills you so,

It pales the graces of the cultured brain?

Long have I known, Love better is than Fame,

And Love hath crowned you; yet if any bay

Cling to my chaplet when the years have fled

And I am dust, may this which bears your name

Cling latest, that my love’s result shall stay,

When that which mine ambition wrought is dead!