Faith is the soul’s pure garment, is it not,
That covers well from cold within a world
Divine things had not been in, had not whirled
From battlemented light the Demon, Thought;
Whose soul-garment is richest he cannot
See grief nor sorrow plainly, though unfurled
The black, tear-dyed pinions of Death’s own world
A-flutter o’er his head, of horror wrought.
Outside your sheltered warmth, a pilgrim, I
Do come and lowly kneel where you sit high—
Soul-naked do I come as humble ones
Who in some fair, far south seek meed of suns—
O! crueller than to them rude Winter’s wing,
Life’s storms to her who seeks such sheltering!