'Not ye who have stoned, not ye who have smitten us,' cry
The sad, great souls, as they go out hence into dark,
'Not ye we accuse, though for you was our passion borne;
And ye we reproach not, who silently passed us by.
We forgive blind eyes and the ears that would not hark,
The careless and causeless hate and the shallow scorn.

'But ye, who have seemed to know us, have seen and heard;
Who have set us at feasts and have crowned with the costly rose;
Who have spread us the purple of praises beneath our feet;
Yet guessed not the word that we spake was a living word,
Applauding the sound,-we account you as worse than foes!
We sobbed you our message; ye said, 'It is song, and sweet!''