The earthly gift to an end divine?
A lady of clay is as good, I trow."
But long ere Robbia's cornice, fine,
With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace,
Was set where now is the empty shrine—
(And, leaning out of a bright blue space,
As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky,
The passionate pale lady's face—
Eying ever, with earnest eye
And quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch,