“What, little saint, and still you scan
Old heaven for that miracle?”
Oh heart deceived, yet harmèd not,
Child-widow of a truth that died,
Bearer in mind of things forgot,
Bride of a dream, Saint Bride, Saint Bride.
About you and about you thunders
The wise young public on its ’bus,
Exploding all your faery blunders,
Explaining neatly—“Thus and thus