Like them thou’rt cold.
Oh fate! that one so beautiful and bright,
So fit t’inspire the meek, to daunt the bold.
To nerve ambition to its loftiest flight,
Should still be cold!
And yet, I love thee, Anna; in my heart,
As in a shrine, thine image I’ll enfold;
I’ll love thee, marble goddess as thou art,
Divine, though cold.
Then hie thee to thy far-off mountain dell!