But I would fain the fond illusion cherish
Which still in joy or sorrow brought thee nigh.
Perhaps my hand, like hers[[4]] in olden story,
Let fall the burning drop that broke thy rest,
Marring by base distrust thy veiléd glory,
And scaring thee too rudely from my breast;
Yet leave me not!—although thy shrine be broken,
Though all its votive wreaths are long since gone,
Faith lingers there, albeit the prayer, unspoken,
Dies on her lip like sorrow’s half-breathed moan.