‘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.