He Sits. Upon The Kingly Head Doth Rest The Round-Balled Wimple, And The Heavy Rings Touch On The Shoulders Where The Shadow 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 Wrong'S 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, Pain And Peace!