Dark vigil hours shall tire Thy wakeful eyes; regrets thy bosom thrill; Slow years thy loveless flower of youth shall kill; Yea, thou shalt yearn for lute and wanton lyre.
Yet is thy guerdon great; thine the reward Of those elect, who, scorning Circe's lure, Grown early wise, make living light their lord.
Clothed with celestial steel, these walk secure, Masters, not slaves.

Over their heads the pure Heavens bow, and guardian seraphs wave God's sword."-- _V.

A.Symonds_..