Down to the earth, those penciled lips shall meet,
The cold sod of thy grave and love’s long kiss repeat!
Then gird thy loins with patience—from the crowd
Be thou a willing exile—but if Fate
Hath otherwise decreed it, if the proud
Should sneer upon thee, or the rich and great
Laugh at thy misery, do thou await
The coming of that hour which shall decide
The issue of the game; and then, with state,
Wrapping thy robe around thee, do thou glide