Sonnet CLVII:
A noble woman! One who can forgive,
Without descending from her native height,
Not a mere trespass, not a foible slight,
But some great wrong that made her spirit
grieve.
Ah, such a one deserves her fame should live,
In something better than a sonnet’s light,
Or bronze or marble, or the proudest sight
That man’s constructive genius can conceive.
No earthly honor is a fitting meed
To crown an act so brave and heavenly fair,
Save the dread halo which the martyrs wear.
O Christ, I pray Thee, to my words give need,
And take my darling to Thy sovereign care—
The sweetest flower arisen from Thy seed!
