| ‘She will change,’ I cried, |
| ‘Into a withered crone.’ |
| The heart in my side, |
| That so still had lain, |
| In noble rage replied |
| And beat upon the bone: |
| ‘Uplift those eyes and throw |
| Those glances unafraid: |
| She would as bravely show |
| Did all the fabric fade; |
| No withered crone I saw |
| Before the world was made.’ |
| Abashed by that report, |
| For the heart cannot lie, |
| I knelt in the dirt. |
| And all shall bend the knee |
| To my offended heart |
| Until it pardon me. |