All things uncomely and broken， all things worn out and old，

    The cry of a child by the roadway， the creak of a lumbering cart，

    The heavy steps of the ploughman， splashing the wintry mould，

    Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

    The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told；

    I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart，

    With the earth and the sky and the water， re-made， like a casket of gold

    For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart