All beauty and all quiet sealed for aye upon

Their images that lie in coif and morion.

A moment since, through rifts and pauses of the rain,

The day shot in; the lancet window showered again

Its moth-like play of silver, rose, and sapphire; shone

What arms of warring duchies glorious, bygone:

Lombardy, Desmond, Malta, suitored Aquitaine!

The while aloft in Art’s immortal summer-tide,

Fair is the carven hostel, fortunate either guest,

And men of moodier England pass, and hear outside

Fury of toil alone, and fate’s diurnal storm,

Hearts with the King of Saints, hearts beating light and warm!

To these your courage give, that these attain your rest.