"The savage who, poor soul, adores a stone
Rather than not adore at all,
And a vivid, vindictive, and serpentine flash
Had been my universe; tho’ refuge none

What may happen? I don't, nor do you, I suppose.
But to return to what I had to say--
Of that beauty which, even when hidd'n, can prevail
When seized by the throat in the hard gripe of Grammar.

Peace from the public upon pious pleas.
Perchance we may meet
Since the beginning of this situation
Of the moraine--there to the right, below

And weird words pursue it--
Over which they were pausing. To-morrow, resistance
On my heart's substance grafted and engrained,
A little warrior, born to rule and fight;

Secure upon his housetop in the snow.
Whilst he spoke thus, a doubtful tumultuous joy
And the wish an ascendency lost to recall,
Inexplicable to my mind they are.

Than a young goddess just about to fly.
The trees broke in, all rustling with surprise,
It would not do! I had forgotten that!
Mine the fault, and be mine the repentence! Not less,

As he stray'd down the darkness.
A ripple of silver harp-strings cold--
Lost or shatter'd, borne down by the stress of the war,
Another’s whim! And I, the plunderer

Over the sea, nor ever returned.
But there were other reasons. I felt sure,
And still feel sure, far away it must tend
From all places in which we have met, or might meet,

At moonrise the land was suddenly brighter;
The light of wild orgies. To do him justice, he
As we then were, would still have been strangely at strife.
Cordelia hesitated. He resolved to remain

The midnight--in which they escape from our sight.
Arrived in port much injured. Gales severe
With a stern sad inquiry fix'd keenly on him.
His aim in this was unconditional;

No! no! do me justice. I never have spoken
A silence to the ear, a something said
Reveal'd to him, riding toward Luchon, the Duke.
Love, or a name: the name is for the dead,

'Neath yon terrible heaven that is watching above
By me untraversed in the Heart's Far West?
And many a time with a mute moody look
I have but little chance to rise: and yet

Lit that festival hour, save what soft light was given
To justify the indiscretion sweet
All its frivolous gods, with an undefined awe,
Fronting the lake, and gleaming to the dawn."

--Thomas P*nsion, Th* Rubaiyat of Ow*n M*r*dith (2000)