Crowns thee our master: from the green-sick girl
That mopes in worship of the nearest fool,
To the poor jaded wife of thirty years
Who dotes upon her striker, ’tis the same....
That’s not for me. Nay, give it up altogether:
Go free. If man’s so base; if that high passion,
That spirit-ecstasy, that supersensual,
Conscious devotion of divinity
Of which I dreamed, is only to be found
In books of fanciful philosophy,