THOU sad, cold ruin, which time's gnawing tooth
Nor age's heavy hand could break nor bend,
From thy pure curves which to our eyes still send
Wonder and that delight which comes from truth;
What though around thy walls no ivy's growth
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Unto thy sad decay a screen can lend;
How could a veil thy beauty pure commend?
Ah, no! The ivy's twine could bring but ruth,
That being fair in its wild loveliness,
It should enwrap the fairer beauty still
Of everlasting laws, which satisfy
The chainless mind, not bound to beauty less
For being chainless, save to that high will
That draws us unto beauty till we die.
B. W. W.
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