XXIV

Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel,

      And human hearts, which to her aery tread

      Yielding not, wounded the invisible

      Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell:

      And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they,

      Rent the soft Form they never could repel,

      Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May,

Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way.