legend of a veil.
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Nay, toil is also praise, the best, from those
Whose ringers are more flexile than their tongues.
Whose ringers are more flexile than their tongues.
"Alack! what do I murmur to myself?
Agnes would grieve to overhear these thoughts.
She likens prayers and hymns unto a stream
Flowing amid the sandy wastes of life,
Watering the roots of action; nerving up
The earnest toiler's strength; the wine of heaven.
Our priests sit at the guarded fountain-head,
To keep the waters pure, and pour the wine
For fainting pilgrims. Niggardly it were,
Saith she, to grudge them shelter, who prepare
A tent for us amid the wilderness.
And Agnes is to me what all these hymns
And chants and mighty chorals are to her,—
A glorious lifting-up; to heart, delight;
To hands, unbounded strength. I would I were
A good King Robert3 for her sake, to vein
The court and camp with rills of saintly song,
A thrill of Veni Sancte Spiritus
To waken underneath the satin scarfs
And ermine mantles of my followers.
I am but Leopold, an ungifted man,
Agnes would grieve to overhear these thoughts.
She likens prayers and hymns unto a stream
Flowing amid the sandy wastes of life,
Watering the roots of action; nerving up
The earnest toiler's strength; the wine of heaven.
Our priests sit at the guarded fountain-head,
To keep the waters pure, and pour the wine
For fainting pilgrims. Niggardly it were,
Saith she, to grudge them shelter, who prepare
A tent for us amid the wilderness.
And Agnes is to me what all these hymns
And chants and mighty chorals are to her,—
A glorious lifting-up; to heart, delight;
To hands, unbounded strength. I would I were
A good King Robert3 for her sake, to vein
The court and camp with rills of saintly song,
A thrill of Veni Sancte Spiritus
To waken underneath the satin scarfs
And ermine mantles of my followers.
I am but Leopold, an ungifted man,
