She smiles — and look! a light is in her eyes
Born of the fire, divine, unquenchable,
Her own — nor eye can see, nor tongue can tell
How dear, how inly precious is the prize
That safe against her heaving bosom lies;
O tender bosom, proudly may it heave!
And thou, the poor and weak and simple, leave
Strength to the strong, and wisdom to the wise,
And ask no more — not even to forget
The bitter mockery of thy heart's desire,
The lips that lied and sneered: the feet that trod
The trusting tender blossom in the mire,
The treachery of men, the wrath of God —
All this may be — and more than this — but yet — —