To match the raptures that they knew in this;
No summer night, no dark secluded grove,
Or deep ravine with sheltering boughs above;
Nor can the foul fiends of the dread abyss
So rend a soul as the fierce agonies
Of Love’s disdain, the doubts and fears thereof.
Tame were the joys of the bright sphere above
To which the saints so ardently aspire,
And vain the anguish of eternal fire
To him who knows the martyrdom of Love.