| O heart, be at peace, because |
| Nor knave nor dolt can break |
| What’s not for their applause, |
| Being for a
woman’s sake. |
| Enough if the work has seemed, |
| So did she your strength renew, |
| A dream that a lion
had dreamed |
| Till the wilderness cried aloud, |
| A secret between you two, |
| Between the proud and the
proud. |
| What, still you would have their praise! |
| But here’s a haughtier text, |
| The labyrinth of her days |
| That her own strangeness perplexed; |
| And how what her dreaming gave |
| Earned slander, ingratitude, |
| From self-same dolt and knave; |
| Aye, and worse wrong than these. |
| Yet she, singing upon her road, |
| Half
lion, half child, is at peace. |