Those cloistral lovers far renowned,
The sage and nun, are here,
Whose quenchless passion yielded not
To penances austere.
In vain the serge, the flinty bed,
The eremital glooms—
The boy-god flashed his fire-tipt reed
Athwart the censer’s fumes.
Ficino, mighty Platonist,
Hath here his dwelling-place;