Such fragmentary trophy

As some cross-tunic'd knight

From Saladin or Sophy

May have won in sword's despite,

Not the dear polar shrines

Held captive by the Paynim

But still as fruit of wars

Some stone from Sion's lines,

Some relic that might sain him

Of life's uncounted scars.

Self-dedicated anchorite,

Never disdainful of the dust,

So, in a world of seemings,

Of shadows and of dreamings,

For thy proud lady Beauty His

O but thy notes were pure,

Remote, aloof, aloof,

In a far fastness proof

Which being so, no gain

'Twere to explain

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