From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?

Love will conquer at the last.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.

All precious things, discover'd late, To those that seek them issue forth, For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth.

But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ.