Memory, in widow's weeds, with naked feet stands on a tombstone. - Aubrey De Vere

Art thou a type of beauty, or of power, Of sweet enjoyment, or disastrous sin?
For each thy name denoteth, Passion flower! O no! thy pure corolla's depth within
We trace a holier symbol; yea, a sign 'Twixt God and man; a record of that hour
When the expiatory act divine Cancelled that curse which was our mortal dower.
It is the Cross!

O Love-star of the unbeloved March, When cold and shrill,
Forth flows beneath a low, dim-lighted arch The wind that beats sharp crag and barren hill,
And keeps unfilmed the lately torpid rill!

Man should be ever better than he seems.