Faithful, when coward promptings cry, "Forget."
Ah, lady, when I gave my heart to thee,
It passed into thy lifelong regency.






SHINE ON

Shine on, O sun! Sing on, O birds of song!
And in her light my heart fashions a tune
Not wholly sad, most like a tender rune
Sung by some knight in days gone overlong,

When he with minstrel eyes in Syrian grove
Looked out towards his England, and then drew
From a sweet instrument a sound that grew
From twilight unto morning of his love.

Go, then, beloved, bearing as you go
These songs that have more sunlight far than cloud;
More summer flowers than dead leaves 'neath the snow;

That tell of hopes from which you raised the shroud.
My lady, bright benignant star, shine on--

I lift to thee my low Trisagion!