Thy feet are set among the moss
That dwelleth on the clay,
Which is a cold uncomely dross;
Thine heart will ever stay
Among the flowers, two cubits high.
And thy majestic brow
Fronteth the awful arch of sky,
That is both high and low.
But thy most wonderful regard
Searcheth the universe;
Gold is, nor silver, cold and hard,
In this thy treasure-purse;
But a most puissant conquering love,
And royal air, whose state,
Mounting the whole of earth above,
Looks in at heaven’s gate.
1915.