‘She will change，’ I cried，

    ‘Into a withered crone.’

    The heart in my side，

    That so still had lain，

    In noble rage replied

    And beat upon the bone：

    ‘Uplift those eyes and throw

    Those glances unafraid：

    She would as bravely show

    Did all the fabric fade；

    No withered crone I saw

    Before the world was made.‘

    Abashed by that report，

    For the heart cannot lie，

    I knelt in the dirt.

    And all shall bend the knee

    To my offended heart

    Until it pardon me.