In some poor relics of the light that blazed in primal beauty,
And, even like as exiles of idolatry, should quaff from the cisterns of creation
Stagnant draughts, for those fresh springs that rise in the Creator.
Only, being burdened with the body, spiritual appetite is warped,
And sensual man, with taste corrupted, drinketh of pollutions:
Impulse is left, but indiscriminate; his hunger feasteth upon carrion;
His natural love of beauty doateth over beauty in decay.
He still thirsteth for the beautiful; but his delicate ideal hath grown gross,
And the very sense of thirst hath been fevered from affection into passion.
He remembereth the blessedness of light, but it is with an old man's memory,