“Cloisters are not for me. Ascetic bands,
Although of iron, chain not souls like mine.
Withes bind not giants, twirled by pigmy hands.
Earth’s hidden fires the globe cannot confine.
They burst in lava torrents! Shade divine
Of Isidor, the fires within my breast
Consume me—for a sight of thee I pine.
Thy lovely lips must yet once more be prest,
Even though in death, or ere I find eternal rest!”
XLI.