ACROSS the trodden continent of years
To shrines of long ago,
My heart, a hooded pilgrim, turns with tears —
For could I know
That in the temple of thy constancy
There still may burn a taper lit for me,
‘ Twould be a star in starless heaven, to show
That Heaven could be.
Bent with the weight of all that I desired
And all that I forswore,
My heart roams, mendicant, forlorn and tired,
From door to door,
Begging of every stern-faced memory
An alms of pity — just to come to thee,
No more thy knight, thy champion no more —
Only thy devotee!