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Not all its alps and valleys have destroyed
Earth's spheric symmetry. From depth to height
Spin the blind worlds, unerringly employed—
Stars, comets, systems—from all time, to write
One pure eternal circle on the void.
So is Love's genuine calm, by Passion's strife
Kept rich and full, else falling soon away,
Or (keeping semblance) sad in lack of life,
As that cold impress fair the adulterous clay
Took on the bounteous heart of Diomed's Wife.[1]
Beneath the tents which sacred Love invests,
Blush not, true man, the rosy wreath to take;
Nor, while within thine arms the dear one rests,
With overstooping kisses to awake
The little Love asleep between her breasts.
The true philosopher is he whose eye
Reads truly nature, God's appointed plan—
He who obeys her rule instinctively,
Or wittingly, or not, the genuine man.
Wisdom is to obey her, knowing why!
- ↑ In the Museum at Naples is shown the mould of a woman's bosom in indurated ashes—supposed to be that of the wife of Dioimed the possessor of the Villa called by his name at the gate of Pompeii.
