I know of a noble lady
⁠Who has never lifted her veil;
Her hand, on the aching temples,
⁠Is tender, and cool, and pale;

Her raiment is black and crimson,
⁠Her voice, which is seldom loud,
Is drowned by a lover's whisper,
⁠But not by a surging crowd;

And her speech, which is heard within us,
⁠Soundeth as if from far,
And she calleth the things that are not
⁠To rebuke the things that are.

Therefore her word is the pillar
⁠Of whatever standeth on earth,
And if aught on earth be precious,
⁠Her sentence gives it worth.

She is very staid in her going,
⁠As if she knew that haste
Would scatter the manna, hidden,
⁠For wayfarers to taste.

Yet whithersoever we hasten,
⁠We find her waiting there;
And she walks where the ways are foulest,
⁠As if she trod upon air.

I have told of her speech and her going;
⁠Of her deeds there is this to tell,
She lifteth up to heaven,
⁠She casteth down to hell.

On earth she layeth foundations,
⁠And others build thereupon;
When they set the headstone with shoutings
⁠She is far away and gone.

For her road is with them that labor,
⁠Her rest is with them that grieve;
Her name is Faith, while you serve her;
⁠When you lose her, Make Believe.

Ancient days of chivalry,
Tournament and falconry;
Ladies fair and barons bold;
Thrilling days, those days of old.
Battled towers and moated steeps,
Turret walls and donjon keeps,
Drawbridge closed and warder grave,
Retainers numerous and brave.
Mailed sentries keeping guard,
Troubadour and minstrel bard
Singing lays 'neath lady's bower,
Serenades at evening hour.
Thrilling days, those days of old,
For ladies fair and warriors bold.

See! a pageant passes by,
In all the pride of chivalry;
Armed knights on chargers gay,
Warriors eager for the fray.
Burnished helm and glittering lance,
In the golden sunshine glance;
Parting words from lady fair,
Tress of dark or golden hair.
Badge on arm, a woven band,
Parting gift from her fair hand;
The knight departs for fields of France,
To win his fair by spear and lance.

Gone those days of pageantry,
Valor and knight-errantry;
Only battle that of life;
Race for wealth the keenest strife.
Love and truth and honor sold,
Bartered for the gain of gold.
Fair ones' hearts not now are won
By deeds of daring nobly done.

Only battle, that of life.
Need it be ignoble strife?
Human hearts are battle-plains,
Where passions rage and warfare reigns.
Foemen ranged on either side:
Hate and Love, Forgiveness, Pride,
Strength and Weakness, Dread and Might;
Direst battles those to fight.
Greatest victors those who win
Conquest over Self and Sin.

There is a tender hue that tips the first young leaves of spring;
A trembling beauty in their notes when young birds learn to sing;
A purer look when first on earth the gushing brook appears;
A liquid depth in infant eyes that fades with summer years.
There is a rosy tint at dawn that flies the brighter day;
A sound of innocence and joy when children shout at play;
A laughing breeze at dewy morn that faints with sultry noon;
A silver veil that softest hangs around the maiden moon.
The scent that roses fully blown about their beauty fling
Is sweet, but cannot with the breath of early buds compare;
So doth there bloom a gentle love in life's enchanted spring,
That fills the breast with feelings age can never hope to share.