The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings today.
The road is rhythmic with the feet
Of men-at-arms who come to pray.
For blows on the fort of evil
That never shows a breach,
For terrible life-long races
Squire Adam had two wives, they say,
Two wives had he, for his delight,
He kissed and clypt them all the day
I take my leave, with sorrow, of Him I love so well;
I look my last upon His small and radiant prison-cell;
Now by what whim of wanton chance
Do radiant eyes know sombre days?
Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus,
Why is that wanton gossip Fame
So dumb about this man's affairs?
Why do we titter at his name
Who come to buy his curious wares?
What distant mountains thrill and glow
Beneath our Lady Folly's tread?
Why didst thou carve thy speech laboriously,
And match and blend thy words with curious art?
For Song, one saith, is but a human heart
When you shall die and to the sky
Serenely, delicately go,
Saint Peter, when he sees you there,
Will clash his keys and say: