I fight thee, in the Holy Name! Yet, what thou dost, is what God saith: Tempter! should I escape thy flame, Thou wilt have helped my soul from Death:… - Lionel Pigot Johnson

The winds are sometimes sad to me, The starry spaces, full of fear; Mine is the sorrow on the sea, And mine the sigh of places drear. Some players upon plaintive strings Publish their wistfulness abroad; I have not spoken of these things, Save to one man, and unto God.

The ardour of red flame is thine, And thine the steely soul of ice: Thou poisonest the fair design Of nature, with unfair device. Apples of ashes, golden bright; Waters of bitterness, how sweet! O banquet of a foul delight, Prepared by thee, dark Paraclete!

Ill times may be; she hath no thought of time: She reigns beside the waters yet in pride. Rude voices cry: but in her ears the chime Of full, sad bells brings back her old springtide. Like to a queen in pride of place, she wears The splendour of a crown in Radcliffe's dome. Well fare she, well! As perfect beauty fares; And those high places, that are beauty's home.