In bower or grove—or in the holy nook
Which shields thy bed—thou would'st not care to look
For thoughts of mine, though faithful in their ken
As are the minds of England's fighting men
When they inscribe their names in Honour's book.
XVI.
Thou would'st not care to scan my face, and through
This face of mine, the soul, for scraps of thought.
Yet 'tis a face that somewhere has been taught
To smile in tears. Mine eyes are somewhat blue