I know thou art a man, thou hast his mould;
Thy wings are fancy and a poet's lie,
Thy halo but the dimness of his eye,
And thy fair chivalry a legend old.
Yet I mistrust the truth, and partly hold
Thou art a herald of the upper sky,
Where all the truth yet lives that seemed to die,
And love is never faint nor virtue cold.
I still would see thee spotless, fervent, calm,
With heaven in thine eyes, and with the mild
White lily in one hand, in one the palm,
Bringing the world that rapture undefiled
Which Mary knew, when, answering with a psalm
Thine Ave , she conceived her holy Child.
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