Xxx

Witness her, kept waiting all this time! What happy angle makes Fifine reverberate Sunshine, least sand-grain, she, of shadiest social state? No adamantine shield, polished like Helen there, Fit to absorb the sun, regorge him till the glare, Dazing the universe, draw Troy-ward those blind beaks Of equal-sided ships rowed by the well-greaved Greeks! No Asian mirror, like yon Ptolemaic witch Able to fix sun fast and tame sun down, enrich, Not burn the world with beams thus flatteringly rolled About her, head to foot, turned slavish snakes of gold! And oh, no tinted pane of oriel sanctity, Does our Fifine afford, such as permits supply Of lustrous heaven, revealed, far more than mundane sight Could master, to thy cell, pure Saint! where, else too bright, So suits thy sense the orb, that, what outside was noon, Pales, through thy lozenged blue, to meek benefic moon! What then? does that prevent each dunghill, we may pass Daily, from boasting too its bit of looking-glass, Its sherd which, sun-smit, shines, shoots arrowy fire beyond That satin-muffled mope, your sulky diamond?