‘She will change,’ I cried.
‘Into a withered crone.’
The heart in my side,
That so still had lain,
In noble rage replied
And beat upon the bone:
 
‘Uplift those eyes and throw
Those glances unafraid:
She would as bravely show
Did all the fabric fade;
No withered crone I saw
Before the world was made.’
 
Abashed by that report,
For the heart cannot lie,
I knelt in the dirt.
And all shall bend the knee
To my offended heart
Until it pardon me.

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