These people have not heard your name;

No loungers in this placid place

Have helped to bruit your beauty’s fame.

The grey Cathedral, towards whose face

Bend eyes untold, has met not yours;

Your shade has never swept its base,

Your form has never darked its doors,

Nor have your faultless feet once thrown

A pensive pit-pat on its floors.

Along the street to maids well known

Blithe lovers hum their tender airs,

But in your praise voice not a tone.

—Since nought bespeaks you here, or bears,

As I, your imprint through and through,

Here might I rest, till my heart shares

The spot’s unconsciousness of you!

Salisbury.