Of a token all too true
From its claspéd cell to roam.
All that the idle world hath kenned
Is like the faded, visible end
Of that lore-lettered mark;
Dim, sadly paled its pristine hues,
In streaming through earth’s chilling dews,
Obedient to imperious muse.
The folded end, still perfect, bright,
In keeping here of household faith,