On tree or maid: nay, were my nature framed
With any touch of truth, these both were made
For souls like mine to look at and enjoy.”
XLII.
“But, Haydn,” said I, “your strange convent, fill’d
With age and vowless maids—you banish thence
Christ’s life, self-sacrifice.”
“And sacrifice
But sates the worst of vanity,” he said,
“Unless our yielding yield to higher good.