A martyr’s death, sir, rather than betray
To you by faintest flatter of a pulse—
By lightest change of cheek or eyelid’s fall—
That I am she who loves, adores, and flies you!
. . . . . . . . .
Ask why the holy starlight, or the blush
Of summer blossoms, or the balm that floats
From yonder lily like an angel’s breath,
Is lavished on such men! God gives them all
For some high end; and thus, the seeming waste