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IMAGE WORSHIP.
Thy cold and polished courtesy,
Each look and tone of thine,
Might well have roused the woman’s pride
In duller souls than mine.
Each look and tone of thine,
Might well have roused the woman’s pride
In duller souls than mine.
They tell me, too, thy heart is light,—
That more than once thou’st loved;
And ’mid all flowers of loveliness
That bee-like thou hast roved.
That more than once thou’st loved;
And ’mid all flowers of loveliness
That bee-like thou hast roved.
Why is it, then, while o’er thy heart
There comes no thought of me,
The good, the true, the beautiful,
All speak to me of thee?
There comes no thought of me,
The good, the true, the beautiful,
All speak to me of thee?
Think’st thou ’tis what the world calls love,
Love that return is seeking?
No—I would scorn a love I sought,
Although my heart were breaking.
Love that return is seeking?
No—I would scorn a love I sought,
Although my heart were breaking.
It is because within the human heart
There is an altar to an Unknown God,
Who from the gods of this world dwells apart,
And in the Unseen, the Unreal, has his abode.
There is an altar to an Unknown God,
Who from the gods of this world dwells apart,
And in the Unseen, the Unreal, has his abode.
