A Pilgrim

ACROSS the trodden continent of years

To shrines of long ago,

My heart, a hooded pilgrim, turns with tears —

For could I know

That in the temple of thy constancy

There still may burn a taper lit for me,

‘ Twould be a star in starless heaven, to show

That Heaven could be.

Bent with the weight of all that I desired

And all that I forswore,

My heart roams, mendicant, forlorn and tired,

From door to door,

Begging of every stern-faced memory

An alms of pity — just to come to thee,

No more thy knight, thy champion no more —

Only thy devotee!