While his lewd visage no man may discern, 
And baffling darkness hides his terror if I turn. 
 
Fighting and falling ever, weariest 
Even of beating off the tempter’s blows, 
Struggling in vain to what one hopes the best, 
A distant river over many snows, 
On whose green bank the purple iris glows, 
And the anemone in some wild cleft, 
And the white violet, and the briar rose, 
And the blue gentian from the heavens reft— 
Lo !  ’Twas that golden bank but yester morn I left. 
 
O river where we dwelt !  Your summer sward 
Whereon we lay, two kings of earth and air ; 
For whom ten thousand angels had drawn sword 
At our light bidding.  Surely, surely, there 
We might float ever to the sea, and spare 
The dainty plumage of that perfect place. 
O God !  O Life !  O Death, thou would`st not 
wear 
Such evil mask upon thy golden face— 
O Mary, pity me of thine abounding grace. 
 
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