The poem
'She will change,' I cried. 'Into a withered crone.' The heart in my side, That so still had lain, In noble rage replied And beat upon the bone:
'Uplift those eyes and throw Those glances unafraid: She would as bravely show Did all the fabric fade; No withered crone I saw Before the world was made.'
Abashed by that report, For the heart cannot lie, I knelt in the dirt. And all shall bend the knee To my offended heart Until it pardon me.