“Still as great waters lying in the West, So is my spirit still. I lay my folded hands within Thy breast, My will within Thy will. O Fortune, idle pedlar, pass me by. O Death, keep far from me who cannot die. The passion-flowers are lacing o’er the sill Of my low door.—As dews their sweetness fill, So do I rest in Thee. It is mine hour. Let none set foot therein. It is mine hour unflawed of pain or sin. ’Tis laid and steeped in silence, till it be A solemn dazzling crystal, to outlast And storm the eyes of poets when long-past Is all the changing dream of Thee and Me.”