Sonnet Lxxxvii:

On my heart's altar when youth's fire burned low, And the grey ashes of years cold and sage Made the high flame abate its heavenward rage, The coals to smoulder and less hotly glow, Thou camest, fair vestal, in thy robes of snow-- Perhaps through ruth that time should so assuage The humblest beacon of this dreary age- And on the embers precious gifts did throw. Since then, with loving hands, O Priestess pure, Thy faith hath tended on the sacred fire, That pays thy care by ever mounting higher: Youth is rekindled; I again endure The heat of love; and hope's long silent choir Sings in my ears the old beguiling lure.