This thy reward well-won,

For every morning's sun

No temporal ache or smart

Drave Beauty from thy heart,

Yes; for though stringent was the test,

When that thy trial was bitterest,

But with grim tenderness did salt

Thy cicatrices with a rhyme.

Not the most sable flame of gloom

Could penetrate thy inmost room;

But through the walls thy spirit sucked

Into that cloistral hermitage

Stray lovely things, moonbeams and snows

The far sky shed into thy cage,

And, from the very gutter plucked,

A lost and mired campestral rose.

Dwelled'st with love and human eyes

Vigilant, calm and wise.

But still as when thy bark did ride

Derelict on the city's tide,

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