“To brave the sudden woe, the secret loss,
Though but to-morrow brings the open shame;
To pay the tribute of your caste, and toss
Your last to him that’s richer save in name;
To judge your peers, and give the doleful meed
To crime that’s white beside your hidden deed;
“To whisper love, where of true love is none,—
Desire, where lust is dead; to live unchaste,
And wear the priestly cincture;—last, to own,
When the morn’s dream is gone and noontide waste,