The grisly gaunt limbs, and the utter
And deadly abstraction of heart;
Whence all that is joyous and bright is
Expell’d as both vicious and vain
O, stony and stolid Stylites,
Our Patron of Pain!”
“There can be but warfare between us,
For thine is a spiritual creed,
And mine is the worship of Venus,
On “raptures and roses” I feed;