And you deny the very soul of love.
As well withhold the lamp, whose light reveals
The sculptured beauty latent in its urn,
As proffer Friendship’s diamond in the dark.
What though a thousand seeming proofs condemn me?
If my calm image smile not clear through all,
Serene, and without shadow on your heart—
Nay, if the very vapors that would veil it,
Part not, illumined by its presence pure,
As round Night’s tranquil queen the clouds divide,