VI

Forgive them all their praise, who blot Your fame with praise of you: Then love may say, and falter not, Adieu.

Yet some you hardly would forgive Who did you much less wrong Once: but resentment should not live Too long.

They never saw your lip's bright bow, Your swordbright eyes, The bluest of heavenly things below The skies.

Clear eyes that love's self finds most like A swordblade's blue, A swordblade's ever keen to strike, Adieu.