How heavily the hand of culture weighs
Upon that far Celestial domain;
Its power is shatter’d, and its wall decays,
The last true Mandarin’s strangled; hands profane
Already are put forth to share the spoil;
Soon the Sun’s realm will be a legend vain,
An idle tale incredible to sense;
The world is gray in gray—we’ve flung the soil
On buried Faery,—we have made her mound.
But if we have,—then where can Love be found?