56
THE TEMPLE OF FRIENDSHIP.
To the innermost temple's room, to the couch, and the sacred loom
Where she weaves her placid will, the goddess came, smiling still,
Unrobing for blissful rest.
[old,
O lily of perfect mould, the world had grown young, not Had it bowed at thy milk-white feet with a love not of fire, but heat,—
Sweet lotus of soft repose !
Like the moon her body glows, like the sun-flushed Alpine snows ;
Her arms 'neath her radiant head, she sleeps, and lo ! o'er her bed
The wicked Cupid leans.
Even he cannot fly the feast which nor vestal nor hoary priest
Had ever enjoyed before. But, stealing her robe from the floor,
He dons it and is gone.
