Have You forgotten then my heart of old, that college of Love, that whip that bright eyes hold?

The school-bred demi-goddesses of this age lack the carved grace of the old pagan mold!

This is a strange world, neither cage nor nest, with no calm nook in all its spacious fold.

The vine awaits Your bounteous rain: no more is the Magian wine in Persia’s taverns sold.

My comrades thought my song were of spring’s kindling: How should they know what in Love’s notes is told?

Out of my flesh and blood You made this earth; its quenchless fever the martyr’s crown of gold.

My days supported by Your alms, I do not complain against my friends, or the times scold.