The ashes of their own experience
So low, in doctrinal catacombs, that none
Find token they can love and mourn like us,—
From such an one as you, I cannot brook
What from these mummies were a pleasant draught
Of bitter hyssop—pleasant unto me,
Drunk from a chalice worthier men have held
And emptied to the lees.
I cannot brook
The shake o’ the head and earnest, sorrowing glance,