‘Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song,’
    The Spirit of true love replied;
    ‘Thou canst not move me from thy side,
Nor human frailty do me wrong.

‘What keeps a spirit wholly true
    To that ideal which he bears?
    What record? not the sinless years
That breathed beneath the Syrian blue:

‘So fret not, like an idle girl,
    That life is dash’d with flecks of sin.
    Abide: thy wealth is gather’d in,
When Time hath sunder’d shell from pearl.’