The poem
I do not cry, beloved, neither curse. Silence and strength, these two at least are good. He gave me sun and start and aught He could, But not a woman's love; for that is hers.
He sealed her heart from sage and questioner -- Yea, with seven seals, as he has sealed the grave. And if she give it to a drunken slave, The Day of Judgment shall not challenge her.
Only this much: if one, deserving well, Touching your thin young hands and making suit, Feel not himself a crawling thing, a brute, Buried and bricked in a forgotten hell;
Prophet and poet be he over sod, Prince among angels in the highest place, God help me, I will smite him on the face, Before the glory of the face of God.