The beauty of the world, the fame of men,
And all things excellent soe'r that be,
The swarming glories of the pompous pen,
Are all too frail ephemeral for Thee.

When Thou hast culled the singers' liberal fee,
When Bernards halt and Jacopones tire,
When island nightingales beyond the sea
Swell Thy renown, the great earth's greatest choir;

When the staunch flames of their melodious fire
Fantastic leap to heaven and beget
The aching torment of a world's desire,
To fall before Thy feet in worship; yet

Still to my ardent heart their fire is snow
My heart knows more than all the poets know.