And a singing maiden, pitched her purple tents
In Rome, leaned with a mother’s fears
In Bethlehem to nurse a son of God upon her breast
And learned the tender loneliness of tears,
Awhile had hid in Europe, sad
In the shadow of magnificence,
Brooding, finding no rest,
And then of a sudden she had run forth from her hiding-place,
Rejoicing, desperate, intense
Against her enemy, a rod