His blankets off and make as if to kiss him
With sighs of passion irresistibly sweet.
Yet he has power to turn on them, to cry
“In the name of Christ begone!” and go they must.
If I were a hermit now—but being myself
I never give them challenge, never bend
Kneeling at my bedside for hours together
Praying aloud for chastity—that’s the bait
Certain to draw them from their shadowy caves,
Their broken shrines and rockbound fastnesses—