Antaeus, as the ancient poets sing,
Though in his contest with the God of Power
Doomed to be conquered, stayed the fatal hour,
And the onlookers set to wondering.
For overborne, to Earth he'd closely cling,
Until he rose again, a mighty tower.
Thus could the Earth with strength her lover dower,
And very near to victory could bring.
So when I feel thy tender hand in mine,
I, too, dear love, against the world could stand,
Courage divine comes with thy lightest touch.
Afar from thee Antaeus-like I pine,
But strength returns now as I clasp thy hand.
Ah! that so slight a thing should mean so much.