His facts are lies: his letters are the fact—
An infiltration flavored with himself!
As for the fancies—whether ... what is it you say?
The lady loves me, whether I love her
In the forbidden sense of your surmise,—
If, with the midday blaze of truth above,
The unlidded eye of God awake, aware,
You needs must pry about and trace the birth
Of each stray beam of light may traverse night,
To the night's sun that 's Lucifer himself,