O heart, be at peace, because
nor knave nor dolt can break
what's not for their applause,
being for a woman's sake.
Enough if the work has seemed,
so did she your strength renew,
a dream that a lion had dreamed
till the wilderness cried aloud,
a secret between you two,
between the proud and the proud.
What, still you would have their praise!
But here's a haughtier text,
the labyrinth of her days
that her own strangeness perplexed;
And how what her dreaming gave
earned slander, ingratitude,
from self-same dolt and knave;
Aye, and worse wrong than these.
Yet she, singing upon her road,
half lion, half child, is at peace.