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!