How many lives, made beautiful and sweet
       &nbsp By self-devotion and by self-restraint,
       &nbsp Whose pleasure is to run without complaint
       &nbsp On unknown errands of the Paraclete,
Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet,
       &nbsp Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint
       &nbsp Around the shining forehead of the saint,
       &nbsp And are in their completeness incomplete!
In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower,
       &nbsp The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,—
       &nbsp A vision, a delight, and a desire,—
The builder's perfect and centennial flower,
       &nbsp That in the night of ages bloomed alone,
       &nbsp But wanting still the glory of the spire.