He sits. Upon the kingly head doth rest 
The round-balled wimple, and the heavy rings 
Touch on the shoulders where the swallow clings; 
The downward garment shows the ambiguous breast; 
The Face--that Face one scarce can look on, lest 
One learn the secret of unspeakable things; 
But the dread gaze descends with shudderings 
To the veiled couched knees, the hands and thumbs close-pressed. 
O lidded downcast eyes that bear the weight 
Of all our woes and terrible wrongs increase, 
Proud nostrils, lips proud-perfecter than these, 
With what a soul within you do you wait-- 
Disdain and pity, love late-born of hate, 
Passion eternal, patience, pride and peace!