Hath its pinkness paled, hath its fragrance fled?
Thus the poet sang, ‘Is the basil vile,
Though the beetle’s foot o’er the basil crawl?’
And though Arachne hath webbed her toil,
Shall disgrace attach to the princely hall?
And the pearl’s clear drop from the oyster-shell,
Comes it not on the royal brow to dwell?
On the Guarded Tablet was writ by Fate,
A double self for each man ere born,
Who shall love his love and shall hate his hate,