Semele

No praise to me!
  My joy 'twas to be nothing but the glass
  Thro' which the general boon of Heaven should pass,
  To focus upon thee.
  Nor is't thy blame
  Thou first should'st glow, and, after, fade i' the flame.
  It takes more might
  Than God has given thee, Dear, so long to feel delight.
  Shall I, alas,
  Reproach thee with thy change and my regret?
  Blind fumblers that we be
  About the portals of felicity!
  The wind of words would scatter, tears would wash
  Quite out the little heat
  Beneath the silent and chill-seeming ash,
  Perchance, still slumbering sweet.