For coloured pebbles scattered on the earth
The while his fingers pointed to a sunrise;
Oh! sure I know your look again were mild,
For he was like a priest in whom a flame
Irradiant burns, and who, his god to honour,
Would kindle it within another’s bosom,
And when o’ermastered, passionately heedless
He bares of veil the Holy Mysteries
That stupored senses thus more swiftly waken
And idols false meet surer disenthronement,