Lo! Very Fair Is She Who Knows The Ways Of Joy: In Pleasure'S Mocking Wisdom Old, The Eyes That Might Be Cold To Flattery, Kind; The Hair That Might Be Grey With Knowledge, Gold. But Thou Art More Than These Things, O My Queen, For Thou Art Clad In Ancient Wars And Tears. And Looking Forth, Framed In The Crown Of Thorns, I Saw The Youngest Face In All The Spheres.