We thy beloved are most poor,
That entertain not innocence.
We are not steadfast to endure;
Make thou the men, when we go hence,
With a great spirit of thee and sure,
Joy that shall need no penitence.
Make them than all their love more saint,
Make them than yellow gold more fair:
Now have I ended all my plaint,
Now have I made thee all my prayer;
And the last incense, thin and faint,
Smokes upward from mine altar stair.
1917.