Where naught each of the other may we trace
Nor feel the freshness of a love-wrung tear.
All kindliness does your heaven ensphere,
Mercy—and the tender, piteous grace
Of Judah’s chosen, the divine, sad face
That smiled its blessing down the ages drear.
Within my heaven ideal Beauty stands,
The chaste white goddess of the cruel hands
And smileless lips who gives naught and asks all,
From whom our praises slip as scorned gems fall.