Publisher's Synopsis
The wasting thistle whitens on my crest, The barren grasses blow upon my spear, A green, pale pennon: blazon of wild faithAnd love of fruitless things: yea, of my love, Among the golden loves of all the knights, Alone: most hopeless, sweet, and blasphemous, The love of God: I hear the crumbling creedsLike cliffs washed down by water, change, and pass;I hear a noise of words, age after age, A new cold wind that blows across the plains, And all the shrines stand empty; and to meAll these are nothing: priests and schools may doubtWho never have believed; but I have loved.Ah friends, I know it passing well, the love Wherewith I love; it shall not bring to me Return or hire or any pleasant thing - Ay, I have tried it: Ay, I know its roots. Earthquake and plague have burst on it in vain And rolled back shattered - Babbling neophytes
