XXV
O wuat pale thoughts like gum exude
From smitten stem of tropic tree!
I talk of veils, who love the nude!
Witness the masterpieces three
Of Rodin that make possible
Life in prosaic Paris, stand
About the room, its chorus swell
From the irritating to the grand.
Shall we, who love the naked form,
The inmost truth, to ourselves fail,
Take shelter from love's lightning-storm
Behind some humbug’s hoary veil ?
Ah! were it so, love, could the flame
Of fast electric fervour flash,
Smite us through husk of form and name,
Leave of the dross a little ash,
One button of pure fuséd gold
Identical—O floral hour!
That were the bliss no eyes behold,
But Christ’s delighted bridal dower
56