A RONDEAU
By Cotton Noe
His heart was pure: he loved the child
That dwelt among untrodden ways
And dared to lift his voice in praise
Of humblest wight in highlands wild.
Poor, wretched man by sin defiled,
He sang in sympathetic lays —
His heart was pure.
The blithe cuckoo and daisy mild,
The daffodils, like elfin fays,
The mystery of sunset haze
O'er barren moors, his pen beguiled —
His heart was pure.