HOW many lives, made beautiful and sweet
⁠By self-devotion and by self-restraint,
⁠Whose pleasure is to run without complaint
⁠On unknown errands of the Paraclete,

Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet,
⁠Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint
⁠Around the shining forehead of the saint,
⁠And are in their completeness incomplete!

​In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower,
⁠The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,—
⁠A vision, a delight, and a desire,—

The builder's perfect and centennial flower,
⁠That in the night of ages bloomed alone,
⁠But wanting still the glory of the spire.