Round thee with the breeze of song/ To stir a little praise of dust.
For what are men better than sheep or goats/ That nourish a blind life within the brain,/ If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer/ Both for themselves and those who call them friend?/ For so the whole round earth is every way/ Bound by gold chains
And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old.
The days darken round me and the years,/ Among new men, strange faces, other minds.