I Was Not He The Man Who Used To Pilgrim To Your Gate, At Whose Smart Step You Grew Elate, And Rosed, As Maidens Can, For A Brief Span. It Was Not I Who Sang Beside The Keys You Touched So True With Note-Bent Eyes, As If With You It Counted Not Whence Sprang The Voice That Rang . . . Yet Though My Destiny It Was To Miss Your Early Sweet, You Still, When Turned To You My Feet, Had Sweet Enough To Be A Prize For Me!