Born for nought else, for nothing but for this, 
    To watch the soft blood throbbing in her throat, 
To think how comely sweet her body is, 
    And learn the poem of her face by rote. 

Born for nought else but to attempt a rhyme 
    That shall describe her womanhood aright, 
And make her holy to the end of Time, 
    And be my soul's acquittal in God's sight. 

Born for nought else but to expressly mark 
    The music of her dear delicious ways; 
Born but to perish meanly in the dark, 
    Yet born to be the man to sing her praise. 

Born for nought else: there is a spirit tells 
My lot's a King's, being born for nothing else.