Over my hot shame all my hair shook loose;
And, lo! it swept my feet in lengths profuse,
A bower of blinding awe to ruffians wild!
My life’s green branch they lopped with cruel sword;
But He hath kissed my hurts, and they are well;
And, walking in the meads of asphodel,
I kiss the scarred feet of my gracious Lord:
I lead his lambkins by my lily bell,
Where the pomegranates shade the softest sward.