But let those memories be thy wine and bread.
Quench not in any shrine
The smouldering storax. In no human heart
Quench what love kindled. Faintly though it shine,
Not till it wholly dies the gods depart.
Truth has remembering eyes.
The wind-blown throng will clamour at Falsehood’s gate.
Has Falsehood triumphed? Let the world despise
Thy constant mind. Stand thou aside, and wait.
Write not thy thoughts on snow.