The things are hollow; and a hollow form
The Devil flies for, like a flying squirrel
For hollow tree-trunks; and when once within,
But half disguised inside his robes of white,
Loud chanting out mere ceremonious cant,
He tempts toward his hypocrisy an age
That knows too much of Christian life, at last,
For heathen life to tempt it.
“Judge by fruits:
Here you—God gave you beauty—to be seen!