Thou hadst, for weary feet, the gift of rest.

She is not old, she is not young, The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue. The haggard cheek, the hungering eye, The poisoned words that wildly fly, The famished face, the fevered hand, Who slights the worthiest in the land, Sneers at the just, contemns the brave, And blackens goodness in its grave.

Song is not Truth, not Wisdom, but the rose Upon Truths lips, the light in Wisdom's eyes.

On from room to room I stray,Yet mine Host can ne'er espy,And I know not to this day,Whether guest or captive I.

Braying of arrogant brass, whimper of querulous reeds.

A dreamer of the common dreams, A fisher in familiar streams, He chased the transitory gleams That all pursue; But on his lips the eternal themes Again were new.

We hold our hate too choice a thing, for light and careless lavishing.