So, sweet, they have forsworn thee. Thou dost roam
Clad in foul motley, yea, in beggars’ weeds,
Thou dear delight of angels in fair deeds,
Thou purity! Thou messenger from home,
The which is heaven, and all whose silent meads
Are peopled with thy children white as ocean foam.
As she might charm the waves to constancy
Singeth sad Philomel in woeful guise,
Still is she left forlorn; and so thine eyes
For all their godhead turn not men to thee:
And thou are like the weary dove that flies
Between the gray heaven and the desert gulfs of sea.
Think not upon us, lady, lest thou weep:
Since that we sully thee, hie hence away:
Spend not thine heart from day to weary day
On the salt shores from which thou mayest not reap;
Go to thy babes, thy little ones, and say,
“Sweetings, I grow your herbs and flowers while ye sleep.”
1917.