Sonnet Lxxiv: Poem by George Henry Boker

I was love's toy and froward instrument--
If that be love which gives itself away
For the mere sweetness of its amorous play,
With its own pleasure filled and well content.--
I was this thing since first my footsteps went
Beyond the loiterings of my childish way,
Until my knotted curls were shot with grey
And creeping wrinkles round my eyes were bent.
I do not boast; I thank the hands that gave
So much to low desert, as fortunes roll;
But now I thank, with brow more fixed and grave,
My gracious God, who crowned the brimming whole,
As I grew less my senses' pliant slave,
With thee, fair spirit, mistress of my soul!