TO THE TRUE ROMANCE.
Thy face is far from this our war, Our call and counter-cry, I shall not find Thee quick and kind, Nor know Thee till I die. Enough for me in dreams to see And touch Thy garments' hem: Thy feet have trod so near to God I may not follow them.
Through wantonness if men profess They weary of Thy parts, E'en let them die at blasphemy And perish with their arts ; But we that love, but we that prove Thine excellence august, While we adore discover more Thee perfect, wise, and just.
Since spoken word Man's spirit stirred Beyond his belly-need, What is is Thine of fair design In thought and craft and deed ; Each stroke aright of toil and fight, That was and that shall be, And hope too high wherefore we die, Has birth and worth in Thee.
Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee To gild his dross thereby, And knowledge sure that he endure A child until he die—
