O brow, so fronted with a stately calm,
O full completeness of true womanhood,
O counsel, pleader for all highest good,
Thou hast upon my sorrow poured thy balm!

Poor soldier he who did not raise his sword,
And, touching with his lips the hilt-cross, swear
In war or peace the livery to wear
Of one that blessed him with her queenly word.

Most base crusader, who at night and morn
Crying Dahin, thought not of her again
From whose sweet power was his knighthood born,

For whom he quells the valiant Saracen.
Shall I not, then, in the tumultuous place
Of my life’s warfare ever seek thy face?