I MEANT to be so strong and true!
The world may smile and question, When?
But what I might have been to you
Immense, august, like some Titanic bloom,
The mighty choir unfolds its lithic core,
Not with her ruined silver spires,
Not with her cities shamed and rent,
Perish the imperishable fires
WHAT strange presentiment, O Mother, lies
On thy waste brow and sadly-folded lips,
Forefeeling the Light's terrible eclipse
THIS perfect love can find no words to say.
What words are left, still sacred for our use,
That have not suffered the sad world's abuse,