Being her friend, I do not care, not I,

How gods or men may wrong me, beat me down;

Her word’s sufficient star to travel by,

I count her quiet praise sufficient crown.

Being her friend, I do not covet gold,

Save for a royal gift to give her pleasure;

To sit with her, and have her hand to hold,

Is wealth, I think, surpassing minted treasure.

Being her friend, I only covet art,

A white pure flame to search me as I trace

In crooked letters from a throbbing heart

The hymn to beauty written on her face.