Canto LXVII
I dream’d there would be Spring no more,That Nature’s ancient power was lost:The streets were black with smoke and frost,They chatter’d trifles at the door.
I wander’d from the noisy town,I found a wood with thorny boughs:I took the thorns to bind my brows,I wore them like a civic crown.
I met with scoffs, I met with scornsFrom youth and babe and hoary hairs:They call’d me in the public squaresThe fool that wears a crown of thorns.
They call’d me fool, they call’d me child:I found an angel of the night:The voice was low, the look was bright,He look’d upon my crown and smiled:
He reach’d the glory of a hand,That seem’d to touch it into leaf:The voice was not the voice of grief;The words were hard to understand.