Not all was for thy learning Nor any mortal's else; Only for thy discerning Sporadic syllables Of those supernal glances Coffer of which her marble countenance is, Yet vain was not the adventure, Reluctant though the prize, Thou gainedst a debenture On the fringe of Beauty's eyes; Such fragmentary trophy As some cross-tunic'd knight From Saladin or Sophy May have won in sword's despite, Not the dear polar shrines Held captive by the Paynim But still as fruit of wars Some stone from Sion's lines, Some relic that might sain him Of life's uncounted scars. Self-dedicated anchorite, Never disdainful of the dust, But conscious of the overcoming night That must engulph the blooms and berries of lust, And unforgetful of the enveloping day beyond; Though a sweet show was spread for thy delight Resolved not to be so fond As, in ephemeral gauds caparisoned, To station feet upon a world of vapour Soft as a dream and fleeting as a taper; Thou thoughtest nevertheless that thou shouldst occupy Thyself, as it seemed to thee, most worthily Until the rapid hour when thou shouldst die; So, in a world of seemings, Of shadows and of dreamings, Busied thyself to fashion and record Unto the greater glory of thy Lord, For thy proud lady Beauty His Most excellent and humble handmaid is. Says one thy service was too ceremonial, Thy vestments irised overmuch, thy ritual Too elaborate and thy rubric too obscure, Therefore thy gift of chant and orison Beneath the perfect service men have done. O but thy notes were pure, And in a day like this we now endure No fault it was in thee to set thy camp Remote, aloof, aloof, In a far fastness proof 'Gainst the mephitic odours of the swamp. Which being so, no gain 'Twere to explain An exquisiteness too meticulous; Let us but say it pleased thee thus, Dowered with imagination heavy-fruited, To raise a column garlanded and fluted For Him thy heavenly abacus. This was thine offering thou didst make In founded hope that He The craftsman's best would take Well knowing its unobscure sincerity.