XI. 
As life burns strong, the spirit’s flames grows dull ; 
The ruddy-cheeked sea-breezes shame its spark ; 
Wan rainy winds of autumn on the dark 
Leafless and purple moors, that rage and lull 
With a damned soul’s despair, these leave their mark, 
Their brand of fire 
That burns the dross, that wings the heart to its desire. 
 
XII. 
No prostitution may be shunned by him 
Who would achieve this Heaven.  No satyr-song, 
No maniac dance shall ply so fast the thong 
Of lust’s imagining perversely dim 
That no man’s spirit may keep pace, so strong 
Its pang must pierce ; 
Nor all the pains of hell may be one tithe as fierce. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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