Why didst thou carve thy speech laboriously¹, And match and blend thy words with curious art？ For Song, one saith, is but a human heart Speaking aloud, undisciplined and free. Nay², God be praised, Who fixed³ thy task for thee！ Austere⁴, ecstatic craftsman⁵, set apart From all who traffic in Apollo's mart, On thy phrased paten shall the Splendour be！

    Now, carelessly we throw a rhyme to God, Singing His praise when other songs are done. But thou, who knewest paths Teresa trod, Losing thyself, what is it thou hast won？ O bleeding feet, with peace and glory shod！ O happy moth⁶, that flew into the Sun！