Nay, do not say my favourite is tame—
Her soul lies dreaming in its tranquil depths,
And 'tis not every passive breeze can wake
The slumberer from her peaceful reverie.
The sheltering wings of Faith, and Hope, and Love
Are folded round the temple of her heart,
Perpetual guardians of its altar place;
And they, of wingéd feet, who go and come,
Must pass beneath their penetrating gaze;
Unhallowed sentiments may enter not,—