Though I Have Found You Like A Snow-Drop Pale, On Sunny Days Have Found You Weak And Still, Though I Have Often Held Your Girlish Head Drooped On My Shoulder, Faint From Little Ill: - Under The Blessing Of Your Psyche-Wings I Hide To-Night Like One Small Broken Bird, So Soothed I Half-Forget The World Gone Mad: - And All The Winds Of War Are Now Unheard. My Heaven-Doubting Pennons Feel Your Hands With Touch Most Delicate So Circling Round, That For An Hour I Dream That God Is Good. And In Your Shadow, Mercy'S Ways Abound. I Thought Myself The Guard Of Your Frail State, And Yet I Come To-Night A Helpless Guest, Hiding Beneath Your Giant Psyche-Wings, Against The Pallor Of Your Wondrous Breast.