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. |
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