Not magick, nor the fires of Heaven
Can outshine the beauty of thy charm
Burnished bright in colours heathen
That stoke the shuddering spirit warm
When stars have died and run out of colour
And marble and monuments decay
Your truth will be embossed, for time fuller
Written lucid on the sky, clear as day
Next to you illusion pales
And is made diminished, menial
The urge for superfluous passion stales
Deepest desires become congenial
   O Beauty, with burning eyes arise
   From enchanting peripheries