Its proud, pure aims, whose wings are melted off
In the warm sunshine of the world’s applause;
Its yearning for an angel’s tenderness:
I read it all, and grieve, and sometimes blush,
That you can desecrate so grand a shrine
By the false gods you place there! you, who know
The lore of love so perfectly, who trace
The delicate labyrinth of a woman’s heart,
With a sure clew, so true, so fine, so rare,
Some angel Ariadne gave it you!