A Pilgrim

ACROSS the trodden continent of years To shrines of long ago, My heart, a hooded pilgrim, turns with tears— For could I know That in the temple of thy constancy There still may burn a taper lit for me, 'Twould be a star in starless heaven, to show That Heaven could be.

Bent with the weight of all that I desired And all that I forswore, My heart roams, mendicant, forlorn and tired, From door to door, Begging of every stern-faced memory An alms of pity—just to come to thee, No more thy knight, thy champion no more— Only thy devotee!