THE TRAVAIL OF PASSION
 
 WHEN the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide;
 When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay;
 Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way
 Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side,
 The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron stream;
 We will bend down and loosen our hair over you,
 That it may drop faint perfume, and be heavy with dew,
 Lilies of death-pale hope, roses of passionate dream.