XIII.
I pray'd my prayer. I wove into my song
Fervour, and joy, and mystery, and the bleak,
The wan despair that words can never speak.
I pray'd as if my spirit did belong
To some old master, who was wise and strong
Because he lov'd, and suffer'd, and was weak.
XIV.
I curb'd the notes, convulsive, to a sigh,
And, when they falter'd most, I made them leap