Richard Garnett

“ Spikenard, from Orient groves transported, clung
To brow and hand; if so my humble room
Might undishonoured harbour her, for whom
Soon should its welcoming door be widely flung.
What princess, fairy, angel from above,
Some radiant sphere relinquishing for me,
Bowed to my habitation poor and cold?
Princess nor sprite nor fay, but memory
Of thee it was that came to knock where Love
Expecting sat behind a gate of gold.
The spirit waning to its hour extreme,
That faith and joy and peace may never know,
Away with it to death without a dream! ”