When I have looked upon Thy face

I hear a wandering discontent

Wail through my living, and retrace

The leaf-strewn paths my feet frequent.

Folly abode within a glade

And saw my flight and, laughing, bade

Me greet her lips and kiss her hair,

Till I was fain to kiss her there.

But Thou art sad and dost not speak,

So sad and sorrowful art Thou;

Thine eyes are scarred, my eyes they seek,

And cruel marks have marred Thy brow.

Pleasure laid hands on me and mine,

She crowned my head with tangled vine,

Her arms about my neck lay bare;

I was constrained to kiss her there.

Yea, Thou hast suffered. This I tell

By those long wound-prints in Thy hands;

Mankind has never used Thee well,

And loves not Thee, nor Thy commands.

Bitterness found me desolate

And kissed me with the breath of hate;

Since Folly fled, she bade me wear

Her angry scarlet in my hair.

Now, as I look into Thy face,

Despised and battered though it be,

Visage of scorn in every place,

I know that I belong to Thee.

Worthless these lips to give the kiss—

And yet I dare, recalling this,

When Life's last lovers left me bare

Thy patient face was constant there.