Cast on the wall of this memorial cave,
This earth, wherein we dwell, are things of nought,
But serving to mislead our darkling sense:
Nay health and strength are but the habitude
Of this delusion. Ask your ruddy clown
Of love; will he not tell you ’tis a pleasure
Which moves the plain heart of the natural man?
But to the poet, what is love to him?
’Tis like heaven’s rainbow scarf, woven of all hues
Of pain and joy; an eagle and a snake