And which ’tis shame and blindness not to see.
But now the joy was mine, for gentle pity
Of her who wearily lived long alone
With mopes and mummers in a sensuous city
That held no passion equal to her own,
For gentle pity, I say, constrained me well,
As pains those separated souls they tell
Prepare for Heaven, and mould their hearts of stone.
But their sweet ecstasy is all abiding
And cannot pall with time nor tire nor fade,