Yet while in disillusionment I sit
Turning the pages of that yesterday,
While through my memory old fancies flit
Like the bright colored dragon flies in May,

Although I would not one false stone replace
Of all man's shattered shrines that round me lie,
I know somewhere there is a living grace,
Some glory that awaits the seeing eye.

I know there is a Beauty that abides,
And makes as one the living and the dead;
Born of the dust, within the mind it hides
The while I sing or break my bitter bread.

It is as if some god plucked at my sleeve,
And cried, " Behold my wound, believe, believe! "