Rudel To The Lady Of Tripoli

I.     I know a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives     First, when he visits, last, too, when he leaves     The world; and, vainly favoured, it repays     The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze     By no change of its large calm front of snow.     And underneath the Mount, a Flower I know,     He cannot have perceived, that changes ever     At his approach; and, in the lost endeavour     To live his life, has parted, one by one,     With all a flowers true graces, for the grace     Of being but a foolish mimic sun,     With ray-like florets round a disk-like face.     Men nobly call by many a name the Mount     As over many a land of theirs its large     Calm front of snow like a triumphal targe     Is reared, and still with old names, fresh names vie,     Each to its proper praise and own account:     Men call the Flower, the Sunflower, sportively. II.     Oh, Angel of the East, one, one gold look     Across the waters to this twilight nook,     The far sad waters, Angel, to this nook! III.     Dear Pilgrim, are thou for the East indeed?     Go! Saying ever as thou dost proceed,     That I, French Rudel, choose for my device     A sunflower outspread like a sacrifice     Before its idol. See! These inexpert     And hurried fingers could not fail to hurt     The woven picture: tis a womans skill     Indeed; but nothing baffled me, so ill     Or well, the work is finished. Say, men feed     On songs I sing, and therefore bask the bees     On my flowers breast as on a platform broad:     But, as the flowers concern is not for these     But solely for the sun, so men applaud     In vain this Rudel, he not looking here     But to the Eastthat East! Go, say this, Pilgrim dear!