My friend, my friend, you understood. SAINT BRIDE About your brow a starry wreath, About your feet a wilderness, Where young hot hopes grow cold beneath The tangled bondage of the press. Set like a saint within a niche— A strait and narrow niche—you hide, And weave a veil about you, which Can turn our steel, Saint Bride, Saint Bride. The eyes of coarse and pond’rous man Are sceptic and satirical. “What, little saint, and still you scan Old heaven for that miracle?” Oh heart deceived, yet harmèd not, Child-widow of a truth that died, Bearer in mind of things forgot, Bride of a dream, Saint Bride, Saint Bride. About you and about you thunders The wise young public on its ’bus,
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