With crimson rubies clustering between,
On sward of emerald, with leaves of pearl,
And topazes hung brilliantly on beryl,
So Agathè!—but thou art sickly sad,
And tellest me, poor Julio is mad,—
Ay, mad!—was he not madder when he swore
A vow to Heaven? Was there no madness then,
That he should do—for why?—a holy string
Of penances? No penances will bring
The stricken conscience to the blessed light