Our Lady of all men's loves, could Love go past her,

Pass, and not hear it?

She hears not as she heard not; hears not me,

O treble-natured mystery,—how should she

Hear, or give ear?—who heard and heard not thee;

Heard, and went past, and heard not; but all time

Hears all that all the ravin of his years

Hath cast not wholly out of all men's ears

And dulled to death with deep dense funeral chime

Of their reiterate rhyme.

And now of all songs uttering all her praise,

All hers who had thy praise and did thee wrong,

Abides one song yet of her lyric days,

Thine only, this thy song.

O soul triune, woman and god and bird,

Man, man at least has heard.

All ages call thee conqueror, and thy cry

The mightiest as the least beneath the sky

Whose heart was ever set to song, or stirred

With wind of mounting music blown more high

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